Prisoners
by Annalynn01
Summary: CA:TWS; slightly AU: The battle is over. Shield won; so did Hydra, but not without casualties. Like the destruction of one cryogenic coffin. No more memory wipes. For the first time in a long time, the Winter Soldier is unchained- free to make his own memories, free to invoke his past. Hydra pushes on, and the Winter Soldier with it. Yet, the woman with the red hair haunts him.
1. Red

**A/N: Thought I'd try my hand at this :)**

**Just a short note: **This story is an alternative take on the ending to the film. No new characters are added, however the circumstances of each existing character have been slightly altered. _What would have happened if the bad guys won?_ Well, see for yourself :)

Constructive criticism is welcome! I own nothing.

*****Update (15/07/2014)***: Unfortunately, due to personal and professional commitments, I can't continue this story. My last chapter, however, is an epilogue of sorts that rounds off the events of the previous chapters in the best possible way. Thank you for taking the time to read and review :)**

* * *

Prologue

The sky was ablaze with the light of a thousand explosions, a sheet of thick grey smoke resting upon the horizon. If it weren't for the dark, imposing shadows of the Helicarriers suspended high above, one would mistake the scene for a day of fireworks; a day of celebration. In a way, today _was_ a day worth celebrating. Of course, that depended on where you were standing.

Alexander Pierce turned to look at the show above him from the confines of his office. The room, located on a higher level of the Treskelion, was enclosed in bullet-proof glass, double glazed. On a normal day, it would look like any ordinary office space; egg-shell white covering the walls, framed pictures of smiles and joy on his desk, the fake potted plant to his right, the loaded glock secured under the desk notwithstanding.

Today was not a normal day.

Today, Pierce had the pleasure of special company.

The Black Widow stood before him, her eyes stung with anticipation, her brows furrowed in an underlying rage. Besides her stood Director Fury, stoic and unmoving, starring straight through Pierce. _He's concealing his fear,_ Pierce noted. _Let's see how long he can hold._

Behind the pair stood Brock Rumlow, a raised M4A1 trained on the backs of the SHIELD agents. His once soulful brown eyes were now a shade darker, sharper. His focus was not spared and if they tried any tricks, they would be regretting it soon after. He'd let them have it; no one would miss them. It was pure luck, really, how he ended up where he was. He'd been meaning to apprehend the Widow a lot earlier, but got side-tracked by the kid. _Sam Wilson?_ It didn't matter now. Having knocked out the kid, he had made his way upstairs only to find Pierce at the receiving end of the barrel of a gun, courtesy of the Widow, of course. They'd almost won. _Almost_.

_Sometimes the bad guys win_, Rumlow smirked at the thought and continued to hold his stance. Although the Helicarriers failed, HYDRA was still in business. He'd apprehended the Widow, the butt of his rifle pressing hard against her head; just in time to stop her from dumping all of Shield's and Hydra's files on the net. Every secret, every mission, every covert dealing would have been unmasked, free for critique and subject to shame. Yet this bitch here thought she could play whistleblower, despite being privy to half of Shield's operations, despite playing assassin girl herself. _Morality._ He never understood the appeal.

"What a waste", Pierce said, shifting his gaze from above to the agents in front of him. "Still, an optimist sees opportunity in every difficulty".

He motioned for Rumlow to open the door to an exit. The elevator would take him to a jet on the rooftop to relative safety. The loss of the Helicarriers was, whilst substantial, a mere scratch on the face of Hydra's extensive base of operations. They had people in high places, politicians, royalty, moles in the White House to ensure their survival. _Like a parasite, evil thriving within good._

Rumlow nodded, soon after aiming his gun at the Widow and her companion, preparing to play _Grim Reaper._ They were lucky. They would die quickly.

"No!" Pierce interrupted, "Leave them here. This room will be secured after I leave. Of course, that won't help much", he smirked. Fury looked to the destruction above, slowly realising his implication. The Helicarriers were deteriorating, chunks of steel and cement plunging into the waters below. Soon, the one directly above them would be torn apart and its remnants would come crashing down directly upon them.

They'd likely die, painfully. _Crushed by the shattered dreams of Hydra_. He'd laugh at the thought if his life wasn't on the line.

With his rifle still trained on them, Rumlow backed away slowly towards the exit. Pierce was already making his way to the elevator. Rumlow sealed the door then entered the security code. Upon its activation, a series of metal bars crept over the security glass, enclosing the office. Reinforced steel over bullet-proof glass bore an uncanny resemblance to a maximum security prison. Soon it would be a concrete coffin. With the code in place, no one could come in, no one could leave. _Not unless you were an Asgaurdian God_, Rumlow smirked.

"Rest in peace", he muttered bitterly under his breath, then made his way to the elevator to join Pierce. _Sometimes the bad guys win._

Fury looked to the Widow. Her gaze was set upon Rumlow as he made his way to Pierce, intensity locked in her eyes yet an underlying fear creeping within. She was already contemplating a plan, he knew, yet a hint of uncertainty marked her face.

She'd considered the feeling of imminent death before; still, her expectations contradicted the stark reality she now faced. She had always imagined death coming to her in the form of an opponent getting the upper hand. She would lose her life whilst fighting, and amidst that last breath of life leaving her body, she'd smile knowing that death came as a gift, courtesy of the throes of combat. The possibility of death never unnerved the Widow; nevertheless, the idea of being crushed under a thousand tons of metal seemed far from desirable.

"We need a plan. I may be able to over-ride the security system. We have 7, maybe 8 minutes before the fall of the last Helicarrier", she said firmly. "I'm not dying here, Nick".

"You don't have to, Natasha. Neither do I", replied Fury, reaching a hand into his jacket pocket. "You need to keep both eyes open".

* * *

Washington D.C.

The smell of burnt metal hung in the air like a dead man cherishing his final breath. It lingered pungently amidst the debris and the destruction—a fowl testament to the events that occurred not long ago.

It had been six days since the fall of the Helicarriers. Six days since the fall of Shield. The onslaught of reporters at the Department of Homeland Security was at an all time high. The public wanted answers. The media had chalked up the mess to a training drill gone very wrong.

The Helicarriers were said to have been linked with one another, when a technical glitch surfaced, turning each of the ships on autopilot. Their objective—to destroy any imminent threat. And what was more threatening than the foreboding presence of a war ship? Hundreds of agents stationed on the armed ships had died as a result; heroic deaths for the good of their country. For national security and for American patriotism. _If only they knew_.

The death of Captain America was a story that ran every few hours on most news channels. The shock of seeing the Captain, a hero from way back when, in the present day, was overtaken by the shock of his death. Several eye witnesses reported the good Captain lying to waste on the banks of a river, unmoving and heavily injured. The arrival of two inconspicuous black SUVs reeled him away. _To be stitched up? To be buried?_ No one knew.

* * *

Idaho

1900 hours

In the countryside, a man and his dog lay sprawled upon the porch of an old heritage home. Beside the man, lay an ashtray and a half-empty bottle of ale. On the right side of the house, was an open barn, seemingly filled with a week's worth of haul. The sun had broken free from the sky and was replaced by stars, now chained to an almost black backdrop. The man had his eyes closed, resting peacefully under the solace of a pleasant dusk, stretching his arm out to caress the dog every now and then. An outsider passing through would have disregarded the mediocrity of the whole scene. _Rural America at its finest._

The front door suddenly opened startling the man. A figure emerged from the dark of the house standing against the door frame, a mere silhouette visible.

"You're wanted inside". Then, the figure disappeared within the darkness.

The man, annoyed at this disturbance, got up and started to make his way inside the house. Before this however, he carefully surveyed the land before him, taking in the vast field with its acres of produce, the two high strung scarecrows swaying slightly in the wind...and the possibility of any unwanted, watchful eyes lingering around.

Turning off the porch light, he gave one final look around then made his way inside, locking the door behind him.

_Inside, it was a different story._

Whilst the exterior of the house boasted a classically vintage appearance, the inside was cold and alienating, the juxtaposition almost alarming. Stripped of all furnishings and with the walls covered in a tasteless grey, it only housed the bare essentials; these being, about four laptops, a mini satellite, a fridge, a microwave and a television set. A few remote controlled radios were strewn carelessly across the kitchen counter, along with 3 assault rifles, disassembled and unloaded.

Two men rested against the counter, carefully surveying the rifles. _Cleaning them meticulously_. They had removed most of their armour but still preferred the safety of Kevlar over their chests.

Another man, older, sat at a table not far away from the counter, his gaze focused intently on the computer screen in front of him. His eyes, framed behind a pair of glasses, looked tired and weary; yet he sat still, hypnotized by the images before him. He made no attempt to look up when the man from the porch stood in front of him, opting to continue his work instead.

"What is it?" the man from the porch asked, an underlying irritation to his tone.

"It's Pierce. He wants an update", replied the older man, still not breaking his gaze.

"I'll phone in within the hour. Besides, I'm not gettin' anything from that asshole in the next room. He won't talk, he won't eat. He's a goddamn zombie".

"Then try harder", the older man said abruptly, finally looking up. "Take this", he continued, handing over a glock, "It _may_ help". His emphasis on the 'may' caused the younger man to raise an eyebrow.

"How long has he been fresh for, now?"

"More than 72 hours", called one of the men from the counter, briefly looking up in between cleaning his rifle. "No chance of going back to black any time soon. A few technical difficulties with the machine have arisen. You'd think they would have kept a spare", the man laughed bitterly.

"I'm going in", the man from the porch said, securing the glock on his waist. "Start setting up the connection for Pierce". Then the man gingerly made his way down the hallway, towards the last room on his left.

He slowed down his step slightly, approaching the room under a veil of caution despite the relative knowledge of the situation. He knew who..._what_ was inside. He just didn't know the kind of response to expect. The man stopped just short of the door handle, removing the glock from his waist and holding it securely in his palm. Reluctantly, he knocked.

_Silence._

Except for the faint sound of a television set inside the room, there was no answer.

The man knocked again, this time, with more urgency.

Again, he was met with silence.

He breathed out, a cocktail of frustration and fear tightening in his abdomen and rising to his chest. Tilting his head against the door, he tried to decipher any sound coming from the other side of the door. He heard a woman's voice, monotone and bland..._it was a news report_, he gathered, _yes,_ they were talking about the incident that had occurred days ago with the helicarriers. _Jesus, that shitfest had blown up all over town within the past few days_, he thought. _Those vultures never get tired of fresh meat._

A mention of Captain America caught him off-guard; he'd heard about the guy, the super-soldier with the super-serum, the temporary coffin of ice; a frozen purgatory. They said he'd died saving the lives of thousands. Was he really dead? Who knew anymore?

The man from the porch breathed in sharply and rolled his fist into a ball. He pounded on the door again, much harder this time. He was getting impatient and Pierce would be on his ass soon. The sound of the television switching off sent a jolt to his stomach. Breathing heavily and with a climbing heart rate, he reached for the knob of the door, twisting it and pushing it open. The creak of the door was sharp and eerie; it cut through the darkness of the room which was somehow colder than the rest of the house.

His eyes first wandered haphazardly around the room, trying to adjust to the inky black void. Slowly, he started settling in, making out the outline of the walls, a simple bed to one side, a small table following the line of sight in front of him, a chair behind that table. The chair...

Abruptly, he stopped; his eyes, wide and frozen. His gaze rested on the chair, or rather, the _figure _occupying the chair.

The man from the porch controlled his breathing and extended his already broad shoulders.

"We leave for the base in an hour. Before that, Pierce wants to talk to you. The satellite is being connected as we speak. It's taking a while, but it's also untraceable so get..."

"_Ostavlyat"._

The sudden interruption by the figure seated on the chair made the man stop in his tracks. A mixture of agitation and anxiety gripped him as he continued to look on.

"What?" he began, "What the fuck does that mean?"

"Ostavlyat", the figure repeated. _Leave._

The man from the porch starred ahead, narrowing his eyes and furrowing his brow. The moon shone at its highest point now, its light wafting eerily across the room. The figure was seated still, yet there was an underlying menace brewing silently amidst the cold room. He was shrouded in a veil of darkness; black velvet enveloped his form creating a brooding silhouette. A glint of metal briefly reflected off of the moonlight, eliciting a pang of curiosity from the man. The figure was stoic, as calm as the night, yet the man knew of his capabilities. The thought made him shudder.

A thin ray of moonlight stretched towards the room, briefly landing across the figure's face, illuminating _only_ his eyes. They looked gray and cold; _like this room_, the man thought. Any hint of colour, any hint of emotion was saturated...washed away, no, drowned in a sea of pale gray; only the cold survived within.

Jolting from his daze, the man called out again this time, readying a finger on the trigger of his glock.

"Listen, asshole, I'm not your friend, I'm just the messenger. We leave in an hour. Get your shit ready for Pierce. If you stall, you might get some lead in you".

"Ostavlyat", once again, except more pronounced this time. That and the addition of a laser beam pointed straight at the Man's chest, the other end of it, attached to a rifle held firmly by the figure.

"Whatever", the man from the porch said, "Just be ready. We leave in an hour".

Turning around, he headed back towards the kitchen but not before closing the door. _Let the monster in the basement be_.

The room was engulfed in darkness once more.

The figure seated on the chair reached over and flicked off the laser pointer on the scope of his rifle, setting it down beside him. He stared straight ahead, his eyes expressionless and devoid of desire. Without shifting his gaze, he reached for the remote and turned the television back on. The reporter had moved on from _Captain America_ and was covering a story on a new diet trend.

_Even heroes have a shelf-life_, he thought bitterly, switching the television off.

Getting up from the chair, he made his way across the room to the large window facing north. The field was engulfed in darkness, he noticed as he peered out, except for the lights attached to each of the scarecrows. Those scarecrows..._dummies hoisted in the air to terrify the birds._

_How much they had in common with him_, he thought bitterly.

Until three days ago, he was a dummy. A mere instrument conditioned for terror, for destruction, acting not of his own accord but upon the orders of men with power. Every need, every indulgence, every carnal desire was numbed with ice; subdued to the core and down to the bone for the purpose of complete control.

_How things have changed._

The Winter Soldier was no longer an instrument for destruction; an unwitting grim reaper.

He was now a man with a past.

The turn of events still surprised him. After pulling the man they called Captain America out of the river in D.C., they had picked him up soon after. He had been wandering aimlessly, unaware of the chaos around him. Of people running away from the impending destruction, of screams, of children crying, no, it was all surreal. He was a man without a mission. He had no purpose.

His tracker betrayed him, and they, _Hydra_, took him in. If he wasn't so listless, he may have fought back, yet the experience of fighting _Captain America_, a man who had called him his _friend_, was too much of a burden to bear—the emotional type which surpassed any physical kind.

_You know me._ Those words—they were uttered by that man. Now that man was dead, taking with him any chance of some reconciliation with a past life that the soldier may or may not have had. He still tried to understand the reason for his most recent decision. After the helicarriers, Pierce had asked to see him. Although, Pierce did not need permission and their meeting was one involving him, strapped to a chair with metal clamps and about a dozen loaded rifles trained on him.

Pierce had laid it bare; the helicarrier incident was bad, real bad for Hydra. If that wasn't enough, they were experiencing difficulties with the machine they often used to dissolve his memories. A few Shield agents had found out about the vault housing the machine, and although they were taken out, they had managed to cause some damage; one of the casualties being the machine.

No more memory wipes. _For now._

The Winter Soldier wasn't sure that was entirely a good thing. Having his memory wiped was traumatic but it gave him a certain degree of efficiency. He was a clean slate, ready to be moulded into an object of their desire with an artificially installed purpose. What was his purpose now? How would he ever come to terms with his past when the man who offered to show him the way, had died?

Which is why he had said '_yes'. For the time being, at least._

Pierce had offered him an ultimatum; continue to work for Hydra as an assassin whilst regaining his past, or venture alone into the desolation of the unknown outside world, risking formidable death. _He had made a lot of enemies after all; unintentionally, but still._In return, Pierce had promised him this; access to his operational file and a psychiatrist on hand to assist with his inevitable memory gain. Access to his own quarters, a clean bed and food were also offered. The Winter Soldier had looked at the older man, trying to decipher any sign of deception, any false promise.

"It's being prepared as we speak" Pierce had said, "All of your past, every incident spanning from your _World War Two_ days to the present; every mission, every covert dealing, all the training you've ever received, every deal gone sour" Pierce grinned. "Hell, you'll even know the colour underwear you wore when Hydra first found you".

The Winter Soldier did not smile. He just stared, unconvinced at Pierce.

So Pierce pulled out his trump card.

Smirking, he had closed in on the younger man, looking him straight in the eye.

"What do you have? You have nothing. You are nothing. Everything you've ever known, everyone you've ever loved is gone. You are a man out of time, soldier. How will you survive in the world?" Pierce had asked, a malicious tone in his voice. "With Hydra, you can be something. You will never have to look over your shoulder anymore, soldier. Your past, your future will be an open book. Look around you; Shield has dissolved, Captain America is dead. You, on the other hand, are still alive. Surely that is not coincidental?".

Pierce had gotten up from his chair, and started to encircle the soldier eying him like a hunter upon his prey.

He continued, "With light, comes the darkness and perhaps you thrive best amidst the darkness". He paused and smiled, knowing where this was going.

Looking the damaged man in the eye, he pressed on.

"Accept your fate, soldier".

Without another word, Pierce had turned to leave the room leaving the soldier to contemplate upon his offer. Well, not exactly 'contemplate'. _There was no choice_. If he refused, they'd kill him on the spot. Pierce could not risk the presence of a former assassin..._Hydra's former assassin_, roaming around in the free world, especially one so emotionally damaged. Still, the offer presented an existence of choice; a temporary shift in power, however fickle it may have been.

_The illusion of choice._

"Yes".

Through strands of thick, dark hair, the soldier had looked up straight, his steel blue eyes burning through Pierce. _If looks could kill..._

The soldier's gaze was intense and unflinching, his jaw was clenched tight and his nostrils were flared. Pierce thought he saw a hint of rebellion in the soldier's eyes; like the younger man was being deceptive, trying to earn their trust; then he'd kill them all.

Pierce had continued to look, narrowing his eyes.

_No_. _That __wasn't rebellion. His eyes were__ just...dead._

"Yes", the soldier had repeated, louder this time.

Alexander Pierce just smiled content in the answer. He wouldn't have to put a bullet in another prized possession after all.

"Hydra will escort you to a safe house. Stay inside, do not engage with the outside world. We're making arrangements at another base. You'll get word of the when and the where. Do not speak to your handlers; they'll only confuse you."

Then, he had left.

The Winter Soldier left his position at the window, and made his way to the chair, picking up the rifle and hoisting it over his shoulders. He walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Slowly, he made his way to the kitchen area, eliciting curious looks from the other men. He could feel one of Hydra's agents tightening the grip on his rifle whilst watching the soldier make his way to the older man in the glasses.

_Fool. I could kill him before he even reached for the trigger._

"Ahh! Frankenstein's monster lives!" the older man quipped sarcastically, aiming to lighten the atmosphere.

He was met with a hard glare from the soldier, and quivered down in his seat as a result.

"Pierce wants to speak to you" the older man said, pointing to a laptop.

The soldier looked at the screen in front of him. An image of Alexander Pierce filled the screen, slightly blurry, yet the soldier could still decipher the outline of a face, still make out the snarl of his lips; that conniving smirk, wholly deceptive and entirely untrustworthy. It was at that moment that the Winter Soldier decided he hated the man known as Alexander Pierce.

It was also in that moment where he realised his fate did not involve treading the dark waters of Hydra's ocean forever.

Pierce's voice brought him back to reality.

"How are you feeling, soldier? Any bad dreams?" The question was matter-of-factly and not genuine, merely procedural.

The soldier slightly shifted and turned his head from side-to-side. No. No bad dreams.

_The truth couldn't be farther away. _

"Good" Pierce replied. The base is almost ready. Departure is at 0600 hours on the dot. Get some rest soldier, you're going to need it".

With that, the screen promptly went blank.

Walking away from the laptop, the Winter Soldier made his way to the hallway of the house, resting against the wall. He closed his eyes, his mind reverting back to that powerful surge of emotion he felt whilst speaking to Pierce. It washed over his entire being, lighting every nerve-ending, tightening every muscle. He had felt alive...charged up.

_What was it? Hate? Rage?_ He hadn't felt anything like it during his missions, his emotions always having been suppressed through conditioning. Yet here and now, without any surge of electricity invading his brain, his mind had evidently started its healing process; his emotions, desires, needs...all rushing to the surface at once, fighting for air..._fighting for his attention_.

He suddenly realised why he'd said 'yes' to Pierce.

_Accept your fate_. The older man had said.

He had agreed reluctantly. It meant survival for a little while longer. Plus, the promise of unearthing his past was tough to pass up following his confrontation with the man on the hellicarrier. Still, his fate was ever-changing, much like the life he'd lived thus far. It was anything but sealed.

He thought back to Hydra's operation of infiltrating Shield, so meticulous and thoroughly executed. Like a parasite, thriving, growing.

He thought about his own situation. He was fully self-aware now and with the machine out of business, he would likely be able to think for himself. _At least, for the time being._

Although his venture into freedom was marred by the continued rule of Hydra, he would lay low, head down, eyes open; do their bidding, earn their trust and use them to achieve his own endgame. He had nowhere else to turn to after the fall of Shield and beggars couldn't be choosers. Under Hydra, he would attempt to piece together every last aspect of his life they stole from him, starting with the man from the helicarrier. _Captain America_. He would recuperate in the shadows, waiting for his time.

Then, he would make them pay.

He was no longer an instrument, but a vessel waiting to be filled with the memoirs of a tragic life.

Curiosity raked at his core.

* * *

Washington D.C.

A couple of hundred miles away, Alexander Pierce sat at a desk going over the specifics of the new base. It was much smaller, only enough to house the minimum requirements yet the loss at D.C. caused a substantial void in Hydra's available resources. For the time being, this was going to have to do.

His office was smaller this time; white walls replaced by a gloomy dark grey, his desk, devoid of photo frames, the room, devoid of fake plants. The glock under this desk remained.

He still had his nose pressed in a file, when a man in combat gear approached him. One of Hydra's many grunts.

"Sir, the specifics of Sitwell's death are in. Would you like them now".

Pierce looked up and nodded absentmindedly, before reverting his gaze back to the sheet of paper before him. Before the grunt could leave the office, Pierce called for him abruptly.

"Put the Sitwell report on the back-burner for now. Get me the Winter Soldier's file", the older man said.

"But Sir, the file has already been prepared just as you specified'.

"Then scratch it off the books. Bring me his file, soldier. I'll prepare a copy for him myself" Pierce replied, irritated by the conversation.

The soldier tilted his head, vaguely guessing Pierce's implications.

Then without another word, he saluted the older man and made his way out of the office.

* * *

Idaho

2100 hours

The Winter Soldier still had his back against the wall of the hallway, when the man from the porch approached him, a slight quiver in his step.

_They're afraid of me, all of them,_ he thought, turning to face the man before him.

"We leave at 0500 hours, soldier. You have about 4 hours left to sleep, eat, watch television...jerk off. _Whatever_. Make it count" the man said, handing the soldier a walkie-talkie. "The room on the left down the hallway is all yours".

The man didn't wait for a reply, promptly turning on his back and making his way to the kitchen area. The rest of the men, including the older gentleman with the glasses, had laid out sleeping cots all across the lounge area. Their distrust of the soldier was obvious.

He waited for them to settle in, still standing with his back against the wall. Their nervous chatter flowed into the hallway as they made comfort their home and began to drift off. Despite the cots, they still kept their armour on, still had their glocks secured tightly around their waistbands. _The newly cleaned rifles were fully loaded_, he knew, and they rested against the table, their butts meeting the hard wooden floor. Perfect positioning, close enough to use quickly in the event of uninvited guests.

_Did they really think they were fooling him?_

_Those rifles were obviously meant for him._

He waited for the last of their whispers before the onset of sleep, backing away from the wall to return to the empty room they had left him. On his way down the hallway however, something caught his eye. It was a photo...or rather, a poster framed in wood and hung up on the wall beside him. _How had he not noticed it before?_ It was the only thing that made this house, a home.

Despite the relative darkness of his surroundings, the Winter Soldier could make out the picture within the frame. It was brightly coloured, a haughty red catching his eye. The poster showed a woman posing with a blue vintage looking car, her back on the hood, her breasts pushed up. The words '_Git R' Done'_ was superimposed above the woman in a gaudy yellow. His eyes scanned the poster, enamoured by the splash of colour...and the woman. She had worn little, leaving little to the imagination. He took in the deep red lipstick she seemed to sport and the tilt of her hips, his mind processing every voluptuous curve of her beautiful form. His eyes settled on her breasts, larger than normal and pushed together in a very small..._top_? He had no idea what she was wearing. Her attire was vulgar and outlandish, yet her gaze was alluringly seductive. His eyes scanned her form again..._slowly_ this time...his focus coming to rest upon her full breasts. The top she wore was slightly transparent and he could make out a hint of her erect right nipple.

He felt a tingle...a stir in his groin like a surge of hot current shocking every nerve ending. What was that feeling? _Hunger? Desire?_ He felt his cock twitch slightly, a natural response to the sight before him whilst his body tried to command his attention.

Sighing heavily, he turned his head, looking away; then he looked back again at the splash of red that had initially caught his eye. His eyes shifted towards the colour, a remarkable shade that crowned the woman's head. Her hair was long and flowing, resting slightly along the hood of the car. His eyes were now fixed intensely on the red of her hair. He had seen this woman before;

The woman with the red hair.

_No, no, not her_...someone else..._another_ _woman_, sporting that exact same shock of hair.

The red hair, that striking red hair evoked a hint of a memory...a sudden flash of nostalgia. One, of a woman running away from him, her body tilted in a forwards position. Her arms were sharp and tense, cutting through the air with each step, thrusting her ahead. Her stride was strong and swift, an inherent power guiding her legs...carrying her far away. She never looked back.

His brows furrowed.

_Why was she running? _

The same shade of red crowned her head, except hers was more vibrant, more real...more _personal._

_Why was she running away from him?_

_Did he kill her? Was she a target for a mission?_

The memory flash was fickle and unproductive, yet the image of that woman with the deep red hair stayed with him for a few moments.

"Everything good?" a voice suddenly erupted, a few steps afar. It was the man from the porch who had woken up to bring the dog in.

The Winter Soldier nodded, still staring at the poster. At the splash of red on the poster.

"Don't worry, I'd fuck her too" the man smirked, oblivious to the soldier's interest as he made his way outside.

The Winter Soldier retreated to his room, closing the door. He hated going to sleep. Sleep brought with it, dreams. Yet he didn't have dreams. Only the regression of his memories had plagued him since the helicarrier incident. They came in flashes, often broken and hard to decipher. The only constant was the pain they inflicted upon him. He thought back to the machine that wiped him after every mission and the cryogenic coffin that awaited his return. Even those dire thoughts presented more comfort than the inevitable nightmare he would soon experience. He braced himself.

His last thought was of the splash of red adorning _the running woman_.

He closed his eyes.

* * *

Washington D.C. 

2200 hours

A hundred or so miles away in a private hospital on the outskirts of the city, a young woman slowly stared awake, her eyes steadily adjusting to the dimly lit room. Her body was sore, still reeling from the injuries she had sustained in the recent past. An IV was connected to her right hand and a few stiches ran along the side of her right arm. Her left wrist was in a caste, the result of a moderate fracture. The woman slowly tiled her head upwards, trying to get a better reading on her bearings. It was dark outside, the harsh patter of rain hitting the windows of the room she was in.

With her head still raised, she examined her surroundings. It was a hospital, she knew that; yet she could not recollect the events *just* prior to that. It wasn't memory loss, she reminded herself. She still knew her name, was still privy to her occupation...the people she worked for. Still, the specifics of the situation made her head ache, blurring her vision in the process. With a painful sigh, she propped back down on her pillow as her eyes met the ceiling. They had undoubtedly injected her with morphine, the drug numbing her mind, diminishing her ability to think clearly. She slowly closed her eyes in acceptance and her mind drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

A few moments later, a nurse entered the room holding the woman. After making a few checks on the equipment used to sustain the woman, she approached her bedside starring curiously at the sight before her. The woman on the bed was resting peacefully under the care of professionals; eyes closed, evoking a neutral expression. She wore no makeup and the fair skin of her face washed out her otherwise delicate features. Only the radiance of her deep red hair stood out—splayed across the pillow, burning against the bruising on her cheeks.


	2. Winter's Chill

**A/N: To avoid any accusations of plagiarism/stealing, I thought I'd just reference this up here; One line from my starting paragraph is taken from the Avengers Animated series (see if you can guess which one). I just thought it sounded so badass so I kept it. Credit goes where due.**

**Also, this chapter is slightly more focused on the psychology of the Winter Soldier (if you will); it's a bit descriptive but the ending is worth it, I promise. Thank you for reading and cheers for stopping by.**

* * *

Chapter Two

"Winter's Chill"

_The Legend went like this; a masked man would come upon you in the calm still of the night. If you were on the list, he would kill you. If not, you were sparred. Sometimes, he would make it look like an accident; other times he would brutalize his prey—a testament to his power, a warning to his enemies. A diabolic manifestation, conjured up from the nightmares of those who feared his presence._

_Colombia, Afghanistan, the Gulf; through virtually every conflict, the Winter Soldier was there._

* * *

Idaho

0520 hours

"Hey, you awake?" a loud voice called, followed by a series of hard knocks. The man from the porch stood outside the door of the last room on the left, still incredulous at being in the same position as the night before.

"We leave in 30 minutes", he continued, adding a few more knocks. "Just lettin' you know".

In the countryside, the dark black of the night was slowly being expunged by the onset of light. The once cold house had started to warm up as the sun was almost upon the horizon. Soon, the arrival of dawn would bring with it a rich radiance enveloping the vast field. Soon, the house would be empty—the men, extinguished along with the cold.

The Man tilted his head slightly, resting it against the frame of the door. Through the silence, he could make out the soft rustling of sheets, a slight moan emanating from the other side.

"30 minutes, soldier" he repeated, followed by a final knock.

He did not wait for a reply, making his way to the kitchen instead.

The older man with glasses had prepared a make-shift breakfast for the men, who were seated comfortably around a plastic table. They had stood their fully loaded rifles against the chairs they sat on, butts meeting the hard wooden floor. Their glocks stayed on the table before them, the close proximity allowing for an increased sense of security. The older man distributed plastic plates filled with food amongst the men, their eyes devouring the sight before them. It was a modest meal comprised of scrambled eggs and toast without butter—ready to be washed down by a half-pint of orange juice. It was by no means a breakfast of champions, yet the men relished in the flavour, savouring every morsel. Men like them could only afford a meagre indulgence in the kind of food before them, having to settle for the blandness of MREs more often than not. In comparison, this felt like a _Continental_ from The Ritz. One of the men seated at the table had a laptop open, the screen displaying a live stream of a sporting match—the _Washington Nationals_ against the _Baltimore Orioles_, with the Orioles in the lead. His gaze was fixed intently on the screen, reverting only _slightly_ in-between sips of his drink—eyes wide, _gleaming_ every time his team scored. The older man watched for a few moments, musing over the apparent over-lap of a Hydra hand and a sports nut. _Grunts needed hobbies too_, he guessed. Sunday morning breakfast, this was not.

"A Hydra agent who likes baseball", he quipped out loud, "I've seen it all" he continued, excusing himself from the table and making his way to the kitchen counter. The man from the porch followed, making his way outside.

"_Loves; _loves baseball", the grunt corrected, his gaze still on the screen. The older man smirked then emptied the contents of his drink into the sink. He observed as the second Hydra agent turned to the screen, a hint of interest apparent on his face as he started to watch the game with his comrade.

"You do know the Nationals don't stand a chance in hell, right?" the younger grunt interrupted, running a hand through his Blond hair. It was short cropped, number one; _jarhead style_. "Zimmerman ain't got shit on Cruz, baby!" he taunted.

_They were hiring them young these days,_ the Older man noted; _steering potential recruits away from the military and law enforcement; enticing them with the spoils of war under Hydra instead._

"Yeah, well, the match has only just started, kid" was the reply. "Zimmerman can't play pitcher forever. What, you wanna put money on it?".

"I would hate for you to lose, brother", the Blond replied, mock concern in his voice as he landed a playful punch on his comrade. The two began to jibe back and forth, an obvious camaraderie existing between them. _Urban soldiers in a shadow war_, the older man at the counter thought. Picking up his own laptop, he made his way to the black van parked outside the house. He did not bother to inform the grunts. In this line of work, colleagues came and left; friendships were the stuff of fiction. The grunts continued to talk amongst themselves, ignoring the relay of the game now. They were approached by the man from the porch who joined them in their conversation.

"Yeah well, any team but the Tigers. If the Tigers _ever_ win, I'm haulin' my ass to Kansas", the Man said, drawing smiles of amusement from the agents.

A brief conversation started brewing, punctuated by vulgarity and highlighted by haughty laughter_. A scene far more suited to the late-night hours of a pub_. They were clearly well acquainted; it made the reality of possible death less fragile. A low sound, emanating from the hallway gradually increased enough to be decipherable, catching their attention. The sound was of...footsteps, _heavy ones_ from steel-capped boots. They were getting closer. The men stopped conversing now, their attention turned squarely on the doorway...and the figure standing against it. The Winter Soldier had awoken from his slumber, his form partially encased in thick armour, his metal arm looking even more diabolical amidst the cold light of day. He stood before them, strands of hair partly covering his pale eyes, his face sporting a neutral expression. _Guarded. _He had clearly interrupted their conversation, clearly put a premature end to their fun and they acted as such, choosing to return his cold stare. An underlying tension was silently brewing; one that the Man from the porch decided to end.

"Sleep well?" he asked, neither genuine in his inquest nor interested in the answer.

The soldier merely nodded, making his way to the lounge area. Their actions did not faze him and they weren't his friends. He had not bothered with their names. To him they were ghosts.

"Bad dreams?" the Man taunted again, privy to his insult. A smirk made its way across his hard face. He had known about the soldier's past; known about the cryogenic procedure and the memory wipes...including the nightmares they conjured up.

The Winter Soldier ignored him. _Better to let sleeping dogs lie_, he thought coldly. _Besides, you might end up killing him._ The thought made him smirk slightly. He attached the last of his armaments—an H&K 416 semi-automatic—to his back and started putting the Kevlar vest over his chest. The older grunt had already left his seat, making his way to the van parked outside. The man from the porch followed. The soldier looked upon the last agent before him. The young Blond still had his eyes glued to the game, a drawn out smile on his face. His team was obviously in the lead. A sudden noise from outside—an angry horn—interrupted his game. _This was more important_. Shutting off the laptop, he stood up quickly and adjusted his armour, securing the glock to his waistband.

"Gotta role out, buddy", he suddenly quipped, a well-meaning gaze directed at the soldier. "Calm before the storm".

The Winter Soldier winced at his use of the term. '_Buddy_'. He furrowed his brows. The man from the helicarrier, Captain America, had also referred to him as his 'buddy'; as his _friend_. Yet, where the grunt's reference was likely nonchalant, the man on the helicarrier was...

"Close the door on your way out", the Blond interrupted his thoughts. "Tack the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the knob for the cleaners. It's okay, they're under us" he grinned, picking up the laptop and making his way to the van. He garnered a nod from the soldier who walked over to the table. Making a final adjustment to his attire, he surveyed the scene before him. The table was strewn with empty plates, an almost full ashtray and drained glasses..._savoured meals_.

They had left nothing for him.

Picking up the last of his gear, he hauled a duffle bag—containing a series of weapons—over his shoulders and made his way towards the front door, closing it. The dog from earlier, the German shepherd, was chained outside and left to its own devices. It's eyes—or whatever was behind them—bore a reminder to the soldier's own disposition. He silently wondered about the dog's fate.

In the van, the Older man entered the location of the base on the mounted GPS system. It was almost 6 AM, and they would have to leave soon to avoid any mishaps. Pierce had called for a briefing at 0900 hours on the dot; he was not particularly interested in knowing the consequences, should they fail to abide by it. The Winter Soldier joined the two Hydra grunts in the back seat, the bulk of their collective forms making for an uncomfortable seating arrangement. The man from the porch sat at the front riding shotgun; the Older man was driving today. Turning the van on, he had begun to reverse it when the Blond abruptly pipped up, his hand on the driver's shoulder.

"Stop the car, doc", he said referring to the Older man. "Forgot my damn walkie-talkie back at the house. Give me a moment, I'll be there and back", he continued, not waiting for permission.

About five minutes later he was back, securing the radio to his waistband and jumping in the back seat.

"Damn cold house" he muttered to no one in particular "Could've sworn I saw a picture hanging somewhere in there too". He was met with silence.

The van reversed out of the driveway and started upon the track leading to the main road. 7 minutes later, they were on the highway heading for the chopper at the pick-up point. An hour or so after that, they were at the base.

* * *

Hydra, Washington D.C.

0710 hours

The 'base' was an old building situated amidst a now, industrial area. It was once home to a string of business and law firms on the strip—abandoned now for greener pastures, leaving behind a series of derelict spaces awaiting new ownership. The area had been transformed substantially, most of the firms being replaced by factories and warehouses. Those that remained were in the process of being demolished. The building owned by Hydra was fairly small, consisting of 9, maybe 10 levels. Where once it boasted a bright white exterior, the walls at present were weathered and dull—a testament to the passing of time. The entrance was fairly inconspicuous, a faint sign of its previous life still evident atop the glass doors—_Stevenson & McCarthy, solicitors_—it read. There were no guards in plain sight, the doors being marked by two chained German Shepherds and a black metal fence surrounding the immediate vicinity.

Upon making their way inside the building, the group was met by five Hydra guards, all ex-special forces, all trained to shoot on sight. Where the exterior was the picture of mediocrity, the interior denoted a place that was particularly bad news for an intruder—the general memo being to shoot first, ask questions later; then shoot again, _this time to kill_. There stood one front desk—a past remnant—but it was unattended. The guards ushered in the group, leading them individually through a series of security procedures—a metal detector, a thorough pat down and the distribution of access passes which would allow them the means to explore the building; this was greatly limited however, the passes only applicable to the first few levels including a floor solely dedicated to the facilitation of a training area.

The two Hydra agents—the older one and the younger Blond—were escorted to the left, in the complete opposite direction of the Winter Soldier. The latter was led across the foyer on the right coming to stop at an elevator. The two guards ushered the soldier inside and followed through. The soldier was met with his reflection in the closing doors and he looked up to examine his form. His hair, partially strewn over his face, was dishevelled and in need of a slight trim; his eyes, once an alluring blue, were now pale pools of muted grey further emphasized by the dark circles underneath. His body however was hard and cut—_build like a brick shithouse_, with his broad shoulders spanning a considerable length. Firm thighs pressed against the material of his pants and his forearm—the good one—was thick and calloused, encased in violet veins protruding slightly over his wrist. His face was dark from the shadow of a neglected beard yet it granted him a rugged disposition—one akin to the _Eastwoods_ and the _Brandos_ of yesteryear. He might have been classically handsome once.

When the elevator reached the fourth floor, the guards stepped out with the soldier following in queue. He surveyed the scene before him. The floor, once an office space, had housed several mini cubicles. They had since been stripped bare and replaced by three large rooms standing separately—all moulded into the floor. Hydra had destroyed any semblance of a past memory within this enclosure, embedding its own presence instead. _Just like they did with me_, the soldier thought bitterly. He was led by the guards to the room in the middle of the floor.

Entry to the room was granted through the swiping of the access pass through a port. The lights had illuminated as a result, and the heat generator had switched on—an automatic mechanism. One of the guards turned to the soldier, handing him a large duffel bag.

"There is a change of clothes in the bag, Sir. Mr. Pierce wants you to wear them for the briefing. If you require further assistance, please press the green button on the side of your bed" he said.

Following a nod, the guard left with his companion and the soldier was soon left to himself. He entered the room examining the sight before him.

The room was large..._larger than normal in fact_, he noted; one that was spacious yet oddly intimate. The walls were covered in a shade of medium blue, and a single picture frame—that of Michelangelo's '_La Pieta'_—hung on the wall facing the bed. The bed itself was covered in crisp, clean sheets—an inviting sight. To the front of the bed lay a wooden table with a television atop; beside this, stood a small mirrored closet and a wooden bookshelf. The soldier noticed an adjoining area and upon further inspection he discovered that it housed a sink and a shower. The room was the picture of a _Home & Garden_ catalogue—a comical contradiction to the reality of Hydra's activities. The only things that stood out were the steel bolts holding down the furniture.

The soldier made his way to the bed, resting the bag upon it. Opening it, he uncovered a fresh pair of clothes—that of a hooded jumper, jogging pants and a pair of socks. Also included was a pack of undergarments. _How nice of them_, he thought coldly, standing up to free himself from his armour. His Kevlar vest came off first, followed by the leather gloves covering his palms and the protective pads enclosing his elbows. His black under-shirt was next and he stripped it off, making his way to the mirror. He was bare now, as he examined himself once more. There was a layer of dark sweat across his taut chest giving a tar-like appearance in the low light of the room. The sinews in his shoulders and arm were strained as they etched through his back outlining the hard muscle of his form. His chest was covered in a series of cuts; some, whitened through the lapse of time, others, blue from the battle he'd just bled in. His chest was bare and a thin line of hair stretched from his abdomen heading downwards in the direction of his...

..._his pants..._

_His pants!_

He'd placed something in his pants earlier. He remembered now.

Quickly shifting in the back pocket, he reached in to retrieve a piece of paper, haphazardly unfolding it. It was the picture from the frame in the house. He did not know why he had taken it. He remembered walking past it on the way out of the house. The splash of red had caught his sight once more, and almost on impulse, he had unhooked the frame from the wall, smashing it against the kitchen counter with his fist. After carefully discarding the remains, he had folded the picture and walked out.

He still did not know why he did what he did.

He held the picture in front of him, his eyes dancing over the red colour in the middle. The woman's hair was still vibrant; her locks were long and beautiful, flowing slightly over the hood. Lifting the picture to his line of sight, he concentrated intensely on the striking red of her hair, hoping to induce another flashback; another suppressed memory of _the running woman._ He did this for a few moments but received nothing. An underlying frustration began to brew within him and his sight soon reverted to the woman herself—his eyes hungrily enveloping her form. She was the same as he'd remembered her—alluring and luscious. Her gaze swept over his body numbing all restraint, seductively enticing every part of him to revel in her inviting form, buxom and ripe—a temptation further enhanced by the bland decor of the room. He was famished.

The scene was familiar, resembling his reaction to her at the house. He looked back at himself in the mirror, his eyes wandering downwards...stopping at the slight bulge against the seam of his pants. There was a tightening feeling in his groin gradually increasing in intensity. Hesitantly, he reached his hand down to massage the erect area slightly—a futile move that did not change much. The woman had a control over him and his loins started to burn with..._with desire_ for the feeling of human touch; the contact that he had craved so intensely for, since the events of the recent past. The memory wipes had stopped and his mind had evidently begun a healing process. It caused his brain to revert back to a primal state, inevitably resulting in an eruption of his most basic instincts—the current one being an insatiable lust.

Still somehow, it surpassed the physical, extending into a desire for something more; a connection on a deeper level with a human being, one that would grant him the prospect of normalcy following the strange life he'd lived thus far. The thought was fickle however; a damning reminder of who..._what_ he truly was. A sudden grief gripped at his core, creeping...sinking into his chest as he came to terms with the reality of his circumstances. Normalcy did not exist in his world. _This was his life._

Grief turned into frustration now, the onset of a silent rage not far away. He coldly chucked the picture aside and made his way to the bathroom. Removing his pants, he stepped into the shower feeling chills up his spine from the cold of the marble. The cubicle was different..._modern_...and he was met with a gush of hot water after a few adjustments. He let the warmth wash all over him yet it only amplified his frustration...the anger he felt at his predicament. He was still hard—the combination of white hot lust emphasized by a burning rage; it served only to intensify his erection. His hand reached down, lightly gripping the base of his cock, his fingers twisting around its thickness. Slowly, he began to slide upwards, massaging the swollen member slightly as his mind longed for the soft touch of a woman. He craved release even if it meant pleasuring himself, yet the feeling—that sinking feeling that had consumed him earlier continued to chip away at his core.

He sighed heavily after a few moments, releasing his grip.

His mind was not into it. _It did not feel...right._

His lust began to subside now along with his erection, leaving only the presence of his undying anger; and his hate for Alexander Pierce.

For a while he swayed under the shower, his mind dead to the outside world.

_Earn their trust; then make them pay._

He thought about his situation. How long until they fix the machine that had once wiped away his memories? How long until he was back in that cryogenic coffin, a slave to carry out their bidding?

_Earn their trust; then make them pay._

The mantra kept repeating itself in his head, burning onto his brain. Finally, his mouth drew into a gradual smile, as his jaw tightened and his nostrils flared—his face taking on a sinister look. His pale eyes reverted back to their striking blue, a glint of life sparkling within if only for a moment. It was almost 9 AM, almost time for the briefing with Pierce.

That old man had a promise to keep—namely the complete surrender of the Winter Soldier's file.

He would make sure that promise was kept.

Turning off the shower, he made his way to the bed and put on his new attire. The hooded jumper was ill-fitting yet oddly warm against his chest. He heard a knock at the door, his mind telling him it was probably the guards from earlier. Quickly tucking away the picture of the woman under his pillow, he made his way to the door.


	3. The Running Woman

**A/N: My last really descriptive chapter; future entries will be more fast-paced since it seems to be the more appealing style around here. I only wanted to detail the first few chapters since I wanted to set the alternative scene, as well as explore some psychological aspects of the Winter Soldier.**

**Thanks for stopping by.**

* * *

"_The truth is a matter of circumstance; it's not everything to every person, all the time"- _Romanova

Washington D.C.

Hydra Base

0900 hours

Alexander Pierce sat at his desk in a small room on the ninth floor of the building, his face buried in a file. The room he called his office overlooked the monotonous landscape of the industrial area—a far cry from the environment he usually thrived in. Where he was once subject to the enjoyment of life's finest pleasures, his present state was reduced to one of failure and disappointment. He chalked up his dilemma to that of a temporary misfortune—a minor blip on the grand scheme of Hydra's goal, as he took another sip of his coffee. The warmth of the drink radiated within his chest, its bitter flavor mimicking the bitterness he felt towards his current disposition.

Against the gentle patter of the rain outside, he continued to browse through the folder before him. It contained the file of the Winter Soldier, and Pierce had taken special care to meticulously resurrect the remnants of a previously buried life. His aim had been to produce an account of the broken man's diluted past—_the Gospel of the Winter Soldier_. Still, gospels were open to vast interpretation. Pierce knew this, taking full advantage of the fact. The Winter Soldier would well and truly receive his file, no questions asked. He would be free to study the makings of his life thus far—from his death as a soldier, to his resurrection as an assassin.

Of course, he would see only what _they_ _wanted him to see_…

Pierce took another sip of his coffee, its bitter taste coming to rest on his tongue.

A knock on his door interrupted him and he beckoned the visitor to enter. It was one of the two Hydra guards who had escorted the soldier earlier that day. The guard entered, closing the door behind him.

"Sir, the briefing is about to start; the soldier is already present", the guard relayed, his eyes staring straight ahead.

"Good" Pierce nodded in reply. "I'll be there in a minute. Make him comfortable and get rid of any weapons in the room. We don't want him to feel like he's a threat; nor do we want to threaten him"

The guard nodded respectfully.

"Oh, and…leave three agents outside; you know, for good measure" Pierce smirked.

"Will do, Sir" came the reply. The guard firmly saluted Pierce then made his way outside.

A few more sips of his coffee and Alexander Pierce was outside the office, file in tow, making his way to the briefing room holding the soldier.

* * *

There was nothing exceptional about the room that the Winter Soldier currently sat in. A round table was situated in the center of the space, heavily varnished and surrounded by wooden chairs. At the front of the room, was a large, white screen—one half of a projection system. It was once a boardroom, home to the private cahoots' of white collars and corporate rats. Now, only an unnerving silence hung in the air.

The soldier sat on one end of the table, his arms crossed against his large chest—a defensive stance taking form. His head was lowered as he awaited the arrival of Pierce. In front of him, stood the two guards who had escorted him earlier, their backs—straight at attention, their gaze, resting firmly ahead. They did not appear to carry any weapons on them, yet the soldier could make out the outline of an army knife tucked inside the ankle of the one standing to his right.

A few additional moments of silence, and Pierce entered the room, nodding at the men. He turned his gaze upon the soldier and smiled tightly, prompting a nod in kind. Pierce took a seat nearby and the guards soon left the room.

The older man patted his younger companion softly—the gesture meaning to convey a sense of trust. It did not seem to have an effect on the soldier, whose shoulders remained stiff. Pierce placed the folder on the table then slid it across to where the soldier sat.

"How are you feeling today, son,?" he asked, smiling at the younger man. It was a deceptively genuine smile—one born from practice and not sentiment.

"I'll live" the soldier simply replied, coldness in his voice. He was not interested in false concern and Pierce's small talk only served to stall the situation.

"How did you sleep at night, these past couple of days? Any headaches? Nightmares?"

"They come in flashes, some of my memories. They only work on triggers. Most of them are broken…hard to put together. Sometimes, they don't come at all. The nightmares I have…they're of the people I've killed. I…I hear their screams," the soldier replied, brows furrowed, his gaze lining straight ahead, then, firmly, "Do you have my file?"

Pierce smiled. "Straight to the chase," He reached over and tapped the brown folder lightly. "It's all in here, son. We've gone to great lengths to extract any and all information that might be of use to you. Before you read it however, I'd like to talk about a few things"

The soldier nodded, turning slightly towards Pierce, his sharp blue eyes meeting the older man's own muted pair.

"Before you read your file, I'd like you to have a word with our on-base psychiatrist, Dr. Pratt. He will be with you henceforth, helping you re-build some of your past from the information within the folder"

Pierce got a nod in return. He continued "We've also installed a training facility in this building; we've begun recruiting, to help off-set the consequences of the helicarrier incident. Most of your use will come in the form of missions—extractions or executions. That being said, we'll need you to lay down the basics for some of our new trainees. Now that you're no longer under ice, your skill set is immeasurable. You'll be escorted to the facility in a few hours"

Alexander Pierce did not wait for a reply, getting up from his seat instead. Once more, he placed his hand on the soldier's shoulder and squeezed, gazing intensely at the man.

"I truly hope you find what you're looking for, son," he said, then made his way out. Pierce headed back to his office, and Dr. Pratt entered.

* * *

10 minutes later, the soldier emerged from the briefing room, his file in tow. The guards escorted him to his room and he made his way to the bed, sitting down and placing the folder before him.

A few levels above him, a knock was heard on the door of Pierce's office. It was the psychiatrist, Dr. Pratt. He entered the room and closed the door behind him, locking it. Then, he began to convey to Pierce, his interaction with the Winter Soldier. Pierce simply stared at the doctor, listening intently to the advice related.

"…so you see, Mr. Pierce," the doctor continued, "Action needs to be taken to ensure no future mishaps. At present, the soldier does not remember any major event from his past. It has been, after all, a mere few days and his brain will not immediately regress to its former state. Recollection is not absolute—it can take anywhere from a few weeks, to a few years for every lost memory to be regained. However, the soldier also seems to operate on triggers, and they may in fact prompt a recollection of a few crucial events that would be very bad for us".

"What are your orders, doc?" Pierce asked firmly.

"We mould his memories according to our own agenda. He will only remember what we want him to," was the reply.

* * *

The Winter Soldier starred intensely at the folder before him. His eyes wandered over the faded brown colour, the dog-eared edges…the label that said '_Confidential_' on the cover. He had been staring at the file for 10 minutes now, his steadily increasing heart beat evident through the sound of silence in the room. The document before him would answer a lot of questions he knew that; it would grant him a foray into his past, a chance to instigate a purpose for his existence. _Indeed, it would change him forever._ Taking in a deep breath, he reached to the file and opened it, bringing it to his eye level.

The first page was a plain white sheet relating his basic statistics; it also included some information in regards to his life before Hydra. His name was James Buchanan Barnes, he found out, born in 1917 in Brooklyn, New York. The feeling that came with discovering his name was a strange one. Until now, his identity was solely based upon the work he carried out; if he wasn't called The Winter Soldier, he was referred to as an asset, or a weapon—a finely tuned instrument instigating change through destruction.

His name…that name…_James…_it was inconsistent with the life he had lived thus far. _It humanized him. _The name sounded so…normal; so unbecoming, like it belonged to a guy with a wife and two point five kids, living somewhere in Suburbia. _James_…he said it again, out loud this time, in an effort to recognize it. Additional information followed regarding his matriculation into the military, his sniper training, his unit—_The Howling Commandoes_.

The Howling Commandoes.

_The Howling Commandoes…_

His head suddenly jerked up, his eyes going haywire as a brief flash of recollection tore through his mind, surging over unreceptive neurons, firing them up as his brain attempted to piece together the remnants of a story involving….

…the Howling Commandoes…singing…they were singing in a bar, lowly lit. He was with them…briefly…then…there were gunshots…they were firing gunshots next to him. They were fighting alongside him…

Panicking, he shuffled carelessly through the folder, finally coming up upon a photo. It showed a group of men, troops, standing casually in a forest; they were rugged with stern expressions, a rifle held by each of them. _The Howling Commandoes! _His eyes carefully made their way across each of the men, each face…yes…_yes_! He recognized _something_; his memory was still extremely hazy yet the feeling was similar to being reunited with a long lost friend after decades. That distant familiarity was burning through his mind as he continued to scan each face carefully.

He rested on one of the men in the middle, a burly physique attributed to him in addition to the thick mustache he sported. He looked to the bottom of the photo, his eyes scanning the names of the men…widening, as they came to rest…on…_Dum Dum Dugan, _he repeated under his breath. He did this for nearly all the men, when his eyes finally caught sight of the man, second to last on the right.

His eyes narrowed as he brought the photo closer. His heart continued to pound faster, the rhythm mimicking the intensity of the situation at present. The man he looked at stood straight, at around 6 feet in height, his shoulders slightly strained from the weight of a rifle in his arms. He was sandy haired, the style cropped short and disheveled in the middle. A light bruise covered his cheek but it was overshadowed by the dark stubble around his chin. Through the shadow of the photo he could make out the remarkable pair of baby blues reaching out…contrary to the slight scowl perched on the man's lips. The man was slightly younger but the resemblance was unmistakable as the Winter Soldier realized he was starring directly into the past, at another version of himself. His eyes slowly made his way to the bottom of the picture, as the stated name confirmed the notion. _James Buchanan Barnes._ He continued to stare and realized that the man starring back had no metal arm.

The feeling was a damming one—bitter sweet in its revelation. He continued to stare at himself—noting the unyielding demeanor, the slight hint of mischievous notoriety betraying an otherwise innocent looking face. He'd had a boyish charm. He looked different now. _Harder._

The Howling Commandos were heroes, he found out as he read on.

_Then how the hell did I land up with Hydra?_

Through the moments that went by, the Winter Soldier learnt about the latter part of his history. His life read like a novel—one, of a hero who fell from grace, staying chained to the confines of a dark place. The information told him about his integration into Hydra.

James Barnes had survived a horrific fall whilst on a mission with his unit, The Howling Commandoes. He was found by Hydra and kept a prisoner of war for months. After the end of World War Two, the United States' government had initiated _Operation: Paperclip_ under the Truman doctrine. It allowed German scientists, including those under Hydra, to completely integrate themselves within the U.S. Government's Department of Research & Development. Their war crimes were pardoned for the apparent greater good they would bring to the field of science. As a result, Hydra had offered to surrender the prisoners they had taken prior to the end of the war, Sergeant Barnes included.

What the Winter Soldier read next sent him over the edge.

Sergeant James Barnes, of the 107th Infantry, had refused to be part of the exchange. The soldier had lost his arm, a still unhealed stump protruding from his shoulder. The sergeant could not bear the thought of returning home a disabled veteran, unable to take care of his own back. The thought had made him feel inadequate, disillusioned and he had spiraled into an unhinging depression soon thereafter. It was only Hydra's alternative proposal to the sergeant that initiated the wheels of motion—those that would ultimately dissolve the man known as 'James Barnes', resurrecting in place, the legend of _The Winter Soldier_.

Sergeant Barnes had become a willing volunteer in The Winter Soldier program overseen by Hydra. Through the injection of a distant variation of the Super Soldier Serum, and the fusion of a metal arm—one made from vibranium—he became a weapon; _their weapon._ Through the years, the Winter Soldier worked amidst the shadows, a willing participant and supporter of Hydra's endgame—to bring about order in a chaotic world. He was eventually embedded within Hydra's Soviet base before and during the Cold War. The cryogenic coffin and the memory wipes were a requirement of the job, and the file confirmed that the sergeant had readily agreed, deeming them to be insignificant sacrifices for the prospect of a new life again.

_He had volunteered…_

_I had volunteered…_

Through short heavy breaths, the soldier slowly sat back against the head of the bed, a surge of angst washing over him. How could this be possible, he wondered, closing his eyes against the dim light of the room.

_I had volunteered…_

_Sergeant Barnes had willingly volunteered to be an agent of Hydra…_

His mind raced back to the words that Pierce had uttered to him a few days back;

"…_perhaps you thrive best amidst the darkness_", the man had said, "_Accept your fate_".

But…it did not make sense. _None of it made sense_, the soldier thought, sitting up and shuffling through the file. He found what he was looking for in the form of the photo from earlier—that of the Howling Commandoes. He looked at the photo trying to guess what his younger self was thinking at that very moment.

_I was a hero once_, he thought. _I was a member of the Howling Commandoes. _

_How could a hero consciously surrender his righteousness; how could a hero willingly let himself become the villain?_

There was also the trickier subject of the man from the helicarrier. The man, Captain America, had distinctly referred to the soldier as a friend; he had specifically alluded to sharing some history with the soldier. He had even called him by the name specified in the file—James Buchanan Barnes. Surely that was not coincidental? And yet the contents of the file gave absolutely no indication of the Captain's presence in the life of the soldier…_James. _On the contrary, itsuggested an alternative path of history—one into darkness instead of light.

_They were hiding things from him_. The contents of the file were inconsistent with the words of Captain America. Unless his memories were so far displaced that he, himself, did not know the exact things he was capable of committing. _Did he_?

Then there was that incredibly vivid flash he had experienced the night before—one of _the running woman_ with the striking red hair. He had not forgotten about her, his mind thinking back to that time in the house where he'd had a brief bout of nostalgia—one, of her running away from him. _Where did she fit in all of this?_

_Something wasn't right,_ he knew.

There were too many contradictions, far too many questions still left unanswered. He decided to confront Pierce about it, keeping in mind that after all was said and done, the only person he could trust was himself; his own mind. Despite the unreliable nature of his memory so far, his gut instincts served to conceive something more out of his experience with Captain America; something that told him he was much more than the soulless weapon they had molded him into.

_But what if I'm wrong?_

The nagging of an unwanted possibility came to surface; perhaps he _was_ the villain. Perhaps Piece was right. Captain America, a force for good, had lost; the man had died. Yet, here he stood, surviving the less than fortunate hand dealt by fate and her cruel ways. Like two sides to the same coin—the darkness, HIS darkness finally expunging the light.

He sighed heavily; weary in his search for the truth. The strain of what he'd just read had taken its toll and if he felt any anger at present, it was overshadowed by the damming weight of despair upon his shoulders; that feeling of helplessness where the choice to fight was merely an illusion. He chucked the file aside in disgust, closing his eyes to welcome the screams that came with his nightmares.

* * *

1700 hours

The soldier was awoken by a firm knocking on his door. His reflexes taking over, he rolled off the side of the bed and onto the floor, reaching towards his waistband for his…his glock…_that wasn't there_. He sighed heavily as he realized the mistake he had made. His mind often blurred the reality between past missions and his present situation, putting him on alert at all times. He was not sure whether that was an entirely good thing.

The knocking intensified and he made his way to the door, opening it. The two guards, his escorts from earlier, stood outside attentively.

"Sir," one of them began, "Mr. Pierce has asked that you be given a short briefing of the training facility located on level 5. You will be engaged with the trainees tomorrow"

The soldier simply nodded and made his way outside, following in tow with the guards. They made their way to the familiar elevator, and after a few moments, it stopped at the fifth level of the building, opening up. The level was spacious—the whole floor being transformed into a training area divided into various sub-sections.

The first thing the soldier saw was a small dojo in the middle of the level, its students had already lined up and were practicing pre-rehearsed moves—_Kata_—their bodies swaying fluidly against the stern commands of the instructor. Most of them looked to be in their mid- twenties to early thirties. Some in particular were very young, he noted; unusually so.

The guards took him to the area on the left which housed various forms of workout equipment—from heart-rate elevators, to a series of weights, to the line of punching bags propped up along the edge of the area. Next, he was taken to the area on the right-hand side of the level. It was cordoned off, heavily secured and upon entering it, the soldier learnt that it was a shooting range—smaller than the ones he was used to, containing only 4 individual lanes. A series of pistols hung on the rack to his left, waiting to be cleaned. He recognized them all.

"It's better than I expected," the soldier suddenly spoke up. The guards, not used to any verbal response from him, stood surprised for a few moments. Then one of them replied.

"That's good to know, Sir," he said. "The facility is not exactly state-of-the-art; we've had to compromise a little since the helicarriers incident. But it's the best we've got right now"

The guard nodded then made his way outside, stopping at the area of the dojo. The soldier did the same.

The students had now paired off and were sparring with their allotted partners. The rigidity of the _kata_ formations had been replaced by the primal energy of freestyle fighting, something that the students obviously preferred. The instructor abruptly called for a stop to the activity, commanding the students to sit against the walls of the dojo. Following this, he called one of the pairs to the center of the space. _He was testing them._

The soldier looked on, eventually resting his eyes on the chosen team—a male-female duo. The male, a blond, burly looking thing stood tall at around 6 feet, 2 inches—an intimidating aura to his demeanor. His partner in comparison was a petite female, her dark hair held up by a tight pony tail, as sweat dripped down the sides of her face. She stood at least a foot below her partner and weighted about half as much. If there was ever a mismatched pair, this was it. Still, her stance was firm and unyielding, the strain evident in her taut arms; it certainly masked her fear.

Upon the word of the instructor, the pair began. It was a slow build prior to any kind of physical contact, with each fighter eyeing the other—predator upon prey. The soldier realized they were measuring the other's potential…trying to anticipate each other's moves. A few moments later and both lunged forward, each fighter administering a series of punches, kicks and everything in between all whilst employing defensive blocks against the other. Both were skilled, the soldier saw, their moves enacted with a precise fluidity more akin to a dance, than a fight. After just a minute of doing this, they parted simultaneously, still holding their firm stances. They were testing each other out, trying to suss out the other's weak spots.

A moment later and they engaged again, this time with more lethal gusto. Where the man was an agent of brute strength, the woman was agile and light on her feet—her small frame aiding her in dodging his blows. Yet, his force eventually proved too much for her and she found herself the victim to some of them—his strikes leaving dark red marks on her fair skin. Where he was merely getting warmed up, she was already sporting several bruises and a cut lip. The sparring continued and the woman held on yet it was evident that she was slightly out of her depth.

The Winter Soldier looked on from outside, enamored by the woman; or rather, by the way she moved. The woman herself did not interest him however her continued persistence and outright denial of her injuries surprised him. She had taken every blow in her stride, employed her own wit and cunning against her much larger opponent…she had…borne something of a reminder…a familiar feeling that he had experienced before. _Déjà vu_? No…

NO…something else…

…_it was a memory_, he finally realized; watching the woman had triggered a memory…

…or, some vague trace of a past experience that was being uncovered the more he continued to study her. He did not experience an immediate recollection like he'd hoped; no sudden flash of current through his brain like before. Instead, he only felt a feeling of familiarity surfacing in a slow burn—like he had watched her before...or watched _someone like her_ before. Or perhaps, he had _fought with_…no…_fought against someone like her before._ His brows furrowed in concentration as he continued to stare.

The pair now stood facing each other, a short distance apart. The woman was bleeding at the side of her head now, courtesy of a nasty gash above her right eye. Her opponent stood not far from her, ready to end the fight with him the victor. She looked straight at the blond haired man, hard and unflinching like her life depended on her next move. Upon the word of the instructor, she charged ahead. The blond man smirked at her oncoming form, fully aware of her next move. She would strike with her right fist, he would block it, holding her arm as he did…then, he would punch her in her exposed gut…_hard_. She stood no chance. This was almost too easy, and yet…

Yet…

_He was wrong_; he realized this fact a little too late, as she surprised him with something he'd never seen her do before. Instead of striking him outright, she merely feigned an attack, catching him off-guard and enabling her to tug into his collar, using the leverage to swing her body around his hips as she hauled herself upon his shoulders—the power of her charge gave her speed, allowing her to complete the move in one clean, swift motion—too quick for him to react in time. Once on his shoulders, her arms reached around his neck, closing in tightly—heavily secured by the strength of her thighs. _She was chocking him out._

The soldier watched all of this, panic in his expression and with his brows tensed. Not because he was impressed; _he had seen better_, but because the move…_that move_ that she had displayed…that she had so effortlessly executed…

…he felt movement around his own waist, his body bearing the weight of an invisible foe; legs…no…thighs around his own neck…squeezing tight…chocking him…

A sudden shot of pain surged through his brain, through his body as his remembered the feeling of slowly losing the air in his lungs, of slowly getting his larynx crushed…the same feeling that plagued the Blond man at this moment.

His mind was doing it again—reverting back...briefly…to a scene from his past as he found himself being straddled by someone, their thighs wrapped tightly around his neck…_squeezing_…

Broad daylight now—surrounded by stopped traffic, scared pedestrians, chaos everywhere yet his only focus was on hauling the force of the weight, off of his shoulders. For a few moments he continued to be strangled, his eyes bulging out painfully as he felt his breath leave his body. Then…his bionic arm sprung into action, reaching up and grabbing whatever was holding him; hauling them swiftly…_violently_, against the body of a car, smashing glass in the process. It was at that very moment, that he saw her. _The Running Woman._

_Her hair was disheveled and covering her face. _

Her face was hidden. Only the red of her hair gave her away.

She was struggling to get up amidst his own self raising a rifle towards her when…

She'd flung something at him sending jolts of electric current through his body…

…bringing him back to reality as…

The Winter Soldier found himself against the wall, held by one of the guards as he lashed out, kneeing the man in the gut and head butting him, breaking teeth through bloody gums, just as…

…electric shocks, real ones this time from the end of a taser, jolted through his form causing him to yell out in agony, but not before slamming the other guard—the one with the taser—against the wall, holding the man's arm out at an odd angle…snapping it horrifically, showing the bloodied bone. Exhausted from the severe shock, the Winter Soldier fell to the ground, his eyes half open—just enough to see an onslaught of Hydra guards running towards him, riffles in hand, tasers already charged up.

He felt steel around his wrists; handcuffs. Two guards on either side of him, gripped him by his shoulders leading him towards the elevator as his legs dragged along the floor. They held him firmly as they passed the dojo, the sparring session now put on hold. From his slightly open eyes, he could make out the blurry outline of the pair from earlier—woman, attending to her gash, the blond man staring curiously at him as a slight smile drifted across his lips.

The soldier continued staring at the smiling Blond who faced him head on, until the guards brought him to the elevator.

He had seen the man before—not a significant feature of his past but…in passing…somewhere.

_Gotta role out, buddy. Calm before the storm…_

Then came the darkness.

* * *

MedStar Washington Hospital Center

2100 hours

The heavy, pouring rain that seemed to cover the night before had finally subsided, leaving the smell of wet mud in the air. A cool chill hung around the room, more pleasant than harsh, and the woman lying on the bed drew the warm sheets closer around her as she watched a late night news report.

A tall mug of hot chocolate sat on the table beside her, partly consumed along with a half finished pack of aspirin. She had been here for almost a week now, and whilst the professional care provided had been much appreciated, it had started to become stale…started to domesticate her; a feeling she was not particularly used to. Still, the events of the recent past came back to her in pieces especially since her life had been on the line. What was it that saved her?

_The Mouse hall?_

The Mouse…hole! That was it; some nifty laser cutting device invented by one of the mad scientists from her place of work—a prototype still awaiting mass production. Her memory was still a mess—wayward and hazy. All she remembered from that day... was cutting through thick glass and metal, perching helplessly upon the parapet… when she fell…and fell into an invisible abyss. She had sustained a few mild injuries, minor fractures, nothing unfixable.

"Miss Dillon?" the question suddenly invaded her thoughts prompting the woman to look in the direction of the voice.

It was the night nurse who had arrived to conduct a final check. The woman greeted the nurse pleasantly and sat back against her bed whilst the nurse made a few adjustments.

"I hope you're feeling better, Miss," the nurse quipped politely, "At this rate, you should recover by next week at the very least".

The woman gave a tight smiled and turned back to the television, waiting for the nurse to finish her last duties for the night. After the nurse made a final assessment on the woman's injured wrist, she made her way towards the exit of the room, giving Miss Dillon a sweet smile—one that was returned in kind.

Miss Dillon propped herself against her pillow and brought her sore wrist up to her eyes. It would undoubtedly take some time to properly heal, yet she was grateful she hadn't broken it. Broken bones were the last thing her line of work accommodated. The ringing of a cell phone pulled her out of her trance, and she reached over to her bag with her good hand, shifting haphazardly around to retrieve it. Pulling it out, she narrowed her eyes at the home-screen that usually displayed the caller id. No such information covered the screen however.

The caller obviously did not want to be identified.

Miss Dillon continued to stare at the phone, contemplating upon whether she should answer it. It was a work issue model, re-wired to only connect to seven pre-installed numbers—the current caller, clearly not part of the club. The ringing stopped after a while. _Just as well_, she thought. _If you're not on the list, you're not on MY list._

A few moments later and the ringing started again drawing a sigh from the now irate woman. She picked up the phone and rejected the call, chucking it across the side table beside her.

It was only the persistent ringing on the third time that the woman reached for the phone and brought it up to her face. _Same unidentified id_. After three more rings, she hesitantly pressed the 'answer' tab, bringing the phone to her ear where she was met with silence. She, herself, did not say anything, choosing to wait for the caller on the other end to bite the bait. _Which they did_.

"Natasha?"

It wasn't the name that threw her off. It was the voice on the other end of the line. It was unmistakable in its depth, sending a sudden chill up her spine.

"Steve?" the woman questioned, panic and surprise in her voice, "I…I thought you were dead"

"Good".

* * *

**Thanks for reading; future chapters will be more fast-paced.**

**Also, the Howling Commandos photo I used for reference (ICYWTK):** . /_cb20131128071147/marvelmovies/images/3/32/Howling_

**Also, thanks to RedParadiseLost, dragonball256, Ludi A for giving great feedback XOX**


	4. The Normal Heart

**Here it is: a mixture of detail and pacing. Let me know what you think, please. Not sure if I've gotten the exact balance so feedback is greatly welcome!**

**Hope you enjoy.**

* * *

MedStar Hospital Center

2100 hours

Natasha Romanoff sat up straight, tossing behind the sheets that covered her sore body. She slowly leapt off of the hospital bed, shoving her feet into the slippers that lay beside it. Her body was still sore, yet her mind was …Hearing Steve's voice on the other end of the line had given her a jolt—like an unwanted yet oddly welcoming blast from the past. Still, a part of her found it to be unsurprising, considering the levels SHIELD would go to, to protect one of their best assets—in this case, the good Captain. He had made some small talk on the phone, asked her about her injuries; yet his serious tone relayed a more pressing issue that seemed to latch onto his mind.

Grabbing her mug from the side stand, she hurriedly downed the last of her drink, simultaneously fitting in 2 tablets of aspirin. The warmth of the chocolate enhanced its sweet flavor, diminishing the sour taste of the pills. Pulling her hoodie over the hospital garb she was wearing, she grabbed her bag and headed towards the hallway. Before she left, she snuck one final look around the room that had helped heal her. _Civilian. _She opened the door to the room, heading down the dimly lit hallway and into an open elevator. Silence kept her company.

The black SUV at the drop-off point near the hospital was still running, its headlights flickering off and on towards her, _twice now_. _SHIELD_, she knew, as she made her way to the vehicle, hopping in the back seat. Natasha hadn't bothered to check out, simply waltzing past the front desk—the thick of her hoodie covering most of her face. The attendants were busy with the phones and her vibrant red hair was nowhere in sight. Even if they missed her, they'd never follow up on it. They wouldn't be able to—she had checked in under yet another alias.

Closing the door of the SUV, she uncovered her head and looked directly at the reflection in the rear-view mirror. Despite the darkness, Natasha recognized the jagged, unflinching gaze of the figure in the driver's seat—an eye-patch covering one side. The SUV made its way onto the main road and Natasha smirked knowingly at the figure in the mirror.

"Good to have you back, Agent Romanoff".

"Good to be back, Nick".

* * *

For what felt like forever, Natasha Romanoff found herself still sitting in the back seat of the SUV, the vehicle gradually veering along the almost deserted road. Wherever they were taking her was a place she'd likely never been to before, her surroundings only serving to confuse her. She hated long drives like these simply because the silence they bore, forced her to contemplate upon her past; forced her to reconcile with her less than ethical choices. She had no time to live in the past.

Finally, the SUV veered off left into a side street that ended in a cul-de-sac. It came to rest in the driveway of a small brick and tile, surrounded by a black metal fence and featuring a neatly manicured lawn—the smell of fresh cut grass still lingering in the air. Obviously another safe house made inconspicuous by the cover of Suburbia, Natasha thought, getting out of the car.

"Well, you guys have certainly upgraded," she said aloud, her sarcasm taking the form of words.

"Who said anything about this being under SHIELD?" came the reply.

An arched eyebrow later and Natasha followed Fury into the house, the cover of darkness rendering them both, invisible.

Upon entering the house, Natasha was taken aback by the apparent normalcy it bore. She half expected it to be an empty vessel over run by agents, stripped down to accommodate everything SHIELD. Contrarily, pleasant peach coloured walls, covered in photos and vintage artwork met her gaze and curiosity got the better of her; she walked over to examine them. The first frame she saw was faded, its edges marred by small cuts; it was obviously an old family photo showing two young girls, sisters perhaps, arms around each other's shoulders in a sideways hug. Natasha did not recognize either of them.

"Nice touch with the photos by the way, Fury", she said in continued disbelief, following him farther down the hallway.

It was only upon entering the main living area of the house, that Natasha realized her judgment had been wrong. The place was fully furnished with a personal touch—one, that turned a house into a home. There were more frames covering the walls, in addition to two large mahogany showcases placed at opposing points within the lounge area; the ornaments and trinklets they held served to enhance their own uniqueness, as well as the overall décor of the place.

Natasha made her way to the wooden dining table, removing her slippers and placing her handbag on the floor beside her. She let her eyes wander around the home once more—this time, paying closer attention to certain pictures in their frames. One of them, an 8 by 12 portrait on a side table caught her eye and she moved towards it, picking it up and examining it. Her expression soon turned to one of recognition as she continued to stare at the picture.

"Hill," she said aloud, turning around to face Fury. "This is Hill's place?"

"One and only," came the reply, as Fury approached her, a cup of strong black coffee in his hand. He handed the drink to Natasha then made his way to a seat at the table.

"After the helicarriers, we've had to amass all of our resources; unfortunately, because of Hydra's role in all of this, we've had considerable losses, including access to many of the safe houses we originally thought were under SHIELD. For now, this'll have to do," Fury replied, nodding at the surroundings.

"Nice of her," Natasha replied, referencing Hill, "We could have been followed you know. There isn't…"

"Relax Agent Romanoff," Fury interrupted, "We damn well made sure to dot our I's and cross our T's. Where do you think this place is located?".

Natasha raised an eyebrow then got up abruptly from her seat, making her way to a window nearby. She looked out, peering into the dark of the night. Despite the houses scattered around and the tall buildings lining the main road, she could make out the dim glow of the sign she'd been looking for. MedStar Hospital Center. Natasha's eyes widened, realizing the implication of Fury's earlier comment.

"So…you spent almost two hours driving to a place that's about 15 minutes away from the hospital? Nice"

"We had to make sure we weren't being followed. 'Sides…a detour ain't so bad. Gives you time to think," Fury smirked, taking a sip of his own coffee.

"That's exactly what's so bad, Nick. Time to think," the red head smirked, turning back to the window.

"Hill and Steve are on the way, by the way. You might want to get comfortable".

Natasha didn't reply; instead, she just continued to stare at the scene outside, hypnotized by the neon lights and the faint buzzing of traffic amidst the now dormant metropolis. She wondered about her future, as a slight tension arose in her mind for the first time in a long time.

She had great expectations going into SHIELD…_going straight_, yet the events of the recent past made her question the very basis of her morality. She wondered how different her path would have been, had she stuck to being a spy. _Probably colder…more secure_, she thought, as she took another sip of her hot drink. Working for the KGB was tough business; still, it gave her a strict degree of efficiency through their constant emphasis on detachment. As a result, it made her question, somewhat, her decision to defer from her original path.

The on-coming sound of wheels on pavement pulled her out of her trance, and she turned around to face the entrants, a slight tingle in her abdomen. Seeing Steve after…well, after his apparent death, was sure to be an interesting way to end the day. The only thing that bothered her was the fact that she hadn't cried upon learning of his passing; at least, not in the way she'd done so for Nick. It had haunted her for days after.

The door of the house opened and the sound of footsteps made their way to the dining area, bringing with them two visitors.

Hill was first in the dining area, a large duffel bag in her grip. The dark-haired woman made her way to Fury, giving him a light hug and setting the bag on the floor. Natasha was surprised somewhat by the rather explicit display of affection between the two agents, but chalked it up to the inevitable sense of camaraderie encouraged by an organization like SHIELD. Hill turned to nod at Natasha who returned the gesture with a tight smile.

"Good to see you Agent Romanoff. How are you feeling?"

"Not bad, Agent Hill," the former spy lied, "Can't complain when you're still living, right?"

Natasha received a friendly nod from Hill.

Finally, the second entrant made his way to the dining room and despite the dim lighting, Natasha could make out the tall, broad-shouldered man walking towards her. He had worn casual attire—a fitted hoodie and dark jeans and his head was covered in a baseball cap. _A hero on his day off_, Natasha thought as she looked up to meet his gaze. The composed demeanor she usually upheld vanished amidst the onset of a wide smile on her face. She disliked having to acknowledge her obvious admiration for the Captain. She was almost envious of him at times; he was pure, honorable—things that were inapplicable to her own inherent nature.

"Back from the dead, I suppose," she quipped, still grinning and making her way to the Captain. He returned the smile—a warm, genuine one that seemed to overpower the chaotic aura clinging to their current predicament. Then again, this was Steve, a man who believed in hope against hope. He drew her into a light hug and Natasha closed her eyes against his shoulders, before pulling back and returning to her seat.

* * *

Hydra base

2130 hours

"Strip him then chain him. Douse him with the hose"

The Winter Soldier came to consciousness, still weakened by the shock that had engulfed his body mere moments before. It had torn through his ligaments, a powerful surge of white hot current that had numbed his form; turning his limbs into butter under a hot knife. He had collapsed soon after.

He opened his eyes to examine his surroundings and realized he was in a strange area—one, not accessible under his security pass. His eyes squinted around the…_room_? No, it did not look like a room. More like…

The area resembled the _shower n' shave_ quarters of an army base—open cubicles covered in white tiles, a layer of dark grime turning the white into a pale green. The air was cold within and a series of dim, blue tinted bulbs evoked an eeriness, only surpassed by the soldier's anxiety over the events to come. It was a holding area—one that was used for interrogating suspects and containing hostiles. The soldier knew.

_Containment_, he said under his breath, slowly recognizing the place where he'd been a willing participant in, many times prior. He had inflicted horrific levels of pain upon his unfortunate victims…literally strangling the truth out of them.

One of the four guards roughly pushed the soldier towards the cubicle before him, and the soldier realized why he had been particularly disabled as he tilted his fingers to feel the metal clasps of the handcuffs around his wrist. Vibranium. _Of course_; anything less and he could have easily torn through the steel like it was paper. Reaching the cubicle, he was shoved roughly against the side wall and surrounded by three of the guards, their rifles trained firmly onto his form—one at his head, two on his chest. The fourth guard pulled out an army knife from the side of his boot, and flicked it open. He used the sharp end to cut through the hoodie covering the soldier's chest—diagonal gashes revealing bare skin underneath. This was repeated for the bottom part of the soldier's attire, following a swift slash of the blade.

The Winter Soldier now stood naked before the guards, and the cold air clung to his skin. He knew what would inevitably follow having been aware of this form of torture, albeit more so on the executing end. The soldier gritted his teeth and braced himself, as the guard with the knife chained his already handcuffed wrists to the back wall of the cubicle. He was exposed now, the skin of his bare back meeting the cold tiles of the wall…_meeting dirt and gunk_, sending shivers of disgust up his spine. The whole process was a method of dehumanizing the prisoner, degrading them as sub-human…_expendable._ They would strip you first to humiliate you, to reduce you down to the core of worthlessness. _Then…_

The soldier looked on, as the guard with the knife joined his comrades against the wall facing the cubicle. One of them reeled in a thick hose and turned on the pump, his eyes gleaming…taunting the soldier who returned an unflinching glare. Soon, the water came rushing out, bringing with it the cold and the force of agony as it lashed against the soldier…_the prisoner_.

* * *

Hill Residence

Sometime after midnight.

"What exactly are you insinuating, Steve?" an inquisitive Natasha questioned, seated in her chair yet teaming with slight frustration.

Following the short-termed reunion, Fury had gotten down to business, relaying his plans to re-build Shield. The journey so far detailed the recouping of clean agents, and the "strategic embedment of Shield within Hydra" as Fury so eloquently pointed out; just like Hydra had once done to Shield. _Taste of their own medicine_.

"Moles?" Natasha repeated in continued irritation, "It's never going to work, Nick. If Hydra corrupted Shield so meticulously and without raising any suspicion, they've probably considered the possibility of Shield doing the same. They'd smell a rat a mile away".

She got up from her seat in frustration and started pacing around the dining area. Steve simply looked at her frenetic form.

"We wouldn't be considering this possibility if it hadn't already been done, Natasha," Steve said, eyes resting on the red-haired woman.

Natasha looked up in surprised at the implication. _Had they…already infiltrated Hydra?_

"Shield's already intercepted Hydra? When? _How_?" Natasha questioned, incredulous at the apparent delay in filling her in on the development. What else were they keeping from her? Was this yet another excuse for Fury to "compartmentalize" his work without any accountability? The thought made her irate as she looked to them for an explanation, a raised eyebrow emphasizing her distaste.

"Not…Shield, per say," Fury replied this time, "At least, not any of our ranked agents. Natasha, we were …lucky that things developed the way they did. It was coincidence but we're taking it as it is" the former director of Shield continued, sliding a brown folder across to her.

Natasha picked up the file and opened it, her eyes scanning the pages within. Fury continued.

"One of our lower level recruits—started out on bodyguard detail for the higher-ups of Shield; planned to work his way up," Fury explained, watching Natasha as she sussed out the information before her, "After the helicarrier incident, he'd infiltrated one of Hydra's bases alongside a few other agents; the whole unit got taken out, except for him. Somehow, he'd managed to evade them. The last message he left was through a line monitored by Shield".

As he said this, Nick Fury reached into his pocket and drew out a USB; he attached it to the laptop on the table and opened one of the files stored on the device. It was an audio recording, and despite the mild interference of static, Natasha could make out the faint voice…a message, conveyed through the recording. It was from the recruit who had survived.

_Tracker one, one, five, two; respond? Location, Washington Federal underground. FUGAZI. Reporting contact and engagement with hostiles, five known casualties for Shield. Enemy casualties, unknown._

Natasha looked on, recognizing the distinct use of _jar-head_ slang. **FUGAZI**; _Fucked up, Got Ambushed, Zipped In_. The voice on the recording continued, gradually increasing in intensity.

_This is Roj, clearance level 2, Shield recruit. Remaining, known survivor of Shield Unit Five A, taking a WAG and tailing enemy. Going Native, rolling out; over._

**WAG**, the term struck Natasha; _Wild-ass Guess_. This guy was definitely ex-military.

The recording had subsided as the room filled with the grey sound of static. Fury removed the USB and pocketed it, turning to look at Natasha.

"This means nothing Nick," the red-haired woman said, "For all we know, he could be dead right now".

"…except, he isn't," It was Steve's turn. Natasha turned around to face her comrade, "Shield issues its recruits with tracking monitors—not to verify location, but to keep tabs on heart-rate…vitals. Don't worry, its _optional_, Natasha" he added, seeing the look of concern on the former spy's face.

Steve continued, "Roj…his monitor is still blinking. He's still alive. We don't have the exact whereabouts of his location but we may have an idea as to what happened after the recording"

Natasha raised an eyebrow, skeptical in her outlook. So, a shield recruit had started tailing the Hydra unit that had ambushed them. _So fucking what?_ How could he possibly embed himself without anyone being the wiser? And yet, the apparent persistence of his tracking monitor served to destroy any illusions she held regarding the recruit's capabilities. _Could he really have gotten that far?_

"Shield monitored his heart rate post ambush; normal indication generally—what we call a sitting rate. A few spikes occasionally, consistent with short bursts of moderate activity—fairly mundane. That might not convey much, but we found something interesting," Fury stated.

He slid a piece of paper with an image of a heart rate reading.

"About 20, 25 minutes post ambush, the monitor picked up a sharp spike in his heart rate activity. Around 160 beats per minute. Doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out its pretty damn high, right?"

Steve continued, "A spike that high is usually an indication of significant cardiovascular strain, consistent with sprinting, or…sparring; _combat_. Shield had already monitored Roj's highest sprinting rate during training—it came in at 191 a minute; way too high to fit the current bill. That leaves the possibility of combat"

"_Slight_ possibility," Natasha interrupted, still skeptical.

"It's something we're willing to follow up on. We think he may have cornered a Hydra agent, engaged with him—which is what set off the spike—then assumed his cover"

Natasha laughed—a haughty, mocking tone coating her display of disbelief. This was ridiculous, the assumptions they made based purely on circumstantial evidence. Steve was obviously interested in the prospect of initiating a rescue operation to liberate his friend; his _former _friend who likely had no memory of the Captain. It was a futile sentiment—something that Natasha personally made every effort to disregard; the burden of saving another person's life only served to obstruct your own. She knew this all too well.

She shuddered slightly as her mind briefly reverted back to an incident in her past—one that saw her in Steve's current position, one that dealt with a comrade…_a man she once knew_…

_No_…she wouldn't cry over split milk, even if that meant burying the burden of her past transgressions. Of what she did, once upon a time..._to him_…or didn't do.

NO!

_S_he wouldn't cry over spilt milk. Natasha never cried.

"Natasha?"

She quickly shook off her trance, turning towards Fury this time. Looking him in the eye, she stated her case.

"So, suppose our mole did assume a cover. How do we use it to our advantage? We don't know his location nor do we know whether he's still alive", Natasha pleaded, "Him breaking into Hydra six days ago doesn't equal him still being alive! They could've found it. He could be…"

"There is something else," Fury added, "I think this may change your mind".

Fury reached into his pocket and retrieved his phone, unlocking it. After scrolling some, he found what he was looking for. He handed it to Natasha who examined the small screen before her.

"The last message he ever sent on a SHIELD issued device; we haven't been able to get a signal since," Fury relayed.

It was a message, sent around 5 days ago—the day after the ambush. Natasha squinted at the screen, trying to decipher the text therein. Only, it wasn't text; it contained a series of numbers. _An IP address!_, she realized. Roj had somehow gotten access to a computer, saving and sending the IP address to Fury. Below the numbers, was another succinct line—a date and a time. _He wants to chat._

"We're working on finding an open port to the IP; it may give us a brief window before Hydra's firewall kicks in. The date specifies the coming Monday—0900 hours, which is what our guys are working towards," Fury continued, sipping his coffee, "That gives us a little over 48 hours, Natasha"

The red-haired woman simply listened, her once irate expression subsiding into a mild curiosity as to the turn of events. If they did in fact establish contact, the game would change. The door to her past—the one she had taken such careful precaution to weld shut—would eventually become unlocked. They would know—Fury, Rogers, Hill; _they all would know_. Natasha couldn't have that.

"He'll die you know," Natasha countered, referring to Roj, "As soon as you establish a line, _if at all_, they'll find out. It will be flagged. They monitor their hired hands too, you know. Once they find a blip on their radar, once they come across any inconsistency, however small, they'll shut down the base and declare damage control. They'll trap the rat, Nick. They'll kill him".

The former spy pressed on—the manipulative tactics she had learnt from way back when, aiding her in her conquest. She slid the brown folder back to Fury. The cover was open, revealing the front page within.

"Could you let that happen?" She asked nodding at the open folder, "He's a rookie, Nick. Considering his inexperienced background under SHIELD, I think it's best if we leave it for a few weeks. Let him settle in properly before he can try to reach us again. Let him retain some security, bond more with the people he's fallen in with".

Fury contemplated upon the proposal for a few moments, his gaze wandering to the open file before him. The front page detailed some general background information on the recruit—_Roj_; his vitals, his past experience in the military, his specific expertise.

A small black and white photo was pinned to the top right-hand corner—displaying his ID photo. Fury eyed the picture; the man was young—23 years old, with remarkable green eyes and close cropped blond hair, jarhead style. _An overlap from his days as a grunt_. His face bore an unexpected innocence, inconsistent with the fatigue of war.

Fury's face betrayed reluctance and Natasha masked her satisfaction with concern.

* * *

Hydra base

Fifteen minutes under the harsh force of ice cold water lashing out at you…hitting every part of your body; the cold—cutting through your core, similar to the feeling of being stabbed repeatedly by the sharp end of a knife. Fifteen minutes, yet it felt like a lifetime.

After the torture he had endured, the Winter Soldier found himself being led to another area on the floor. He was half naked now, the replacement pair of pants covering his lower frame doing a poor job of keeping him warm. The vibranium handcuffs were still enclosed around his wrists, rubbing harshly against his skin. The cold was damning…penetrating, yet his body rejected the onset of its chill as his core fought to retain any and all heat from the rest of his form.

He was angry too—livid that they had subjected him to the exact same agony he once specialized in administering. The soldier stayed silent in his animosity and they led him into a dimly lit room, seating him on an uncomfortable chair. They soon left, and he found himself alone.

As he waited in silence, the chained man found himself contemplating upon the memories that had surfaced within the previous days. His experiences with the man on the helicarrier, as well as his apparent fight with the red-haired woman were of particular significance. They, Hydra, were obviously not telling him everything, and it was highly likely that following up on the Captain would lead to a dead end. _For now anyway_.

Then, there was the case of the woman. If the experience he'd just endured was any indication of an actual memory, it was likely that he had come across this woman sometime in his past. He had fought against her, that was evident, yet there was something of a familiarity that had latched onto his recollection; as if, the memory was one of many and her presence exceeded that of just one occasion.

_Fought with her…against her…alongside her?_

_Did he know her?_

His folder contained briefings on all of his missions, yet they were not as detailed as he'd hoped. Pierce would give him what he needed.

In doing so, perhaps her supposed role in his past would become clearer.

* * *

Hill Residence

"Can you really do it? Do you really only see it as sacrificing a pawn to save the King, Nick?"

Natasha wasn't budging. Fury sat in silence alongside Steve and Hill.

"The thing you have to realize, Natasha, is that whilst his death is a possibility, it's not a guarantee. That would depend on the skills he picked up in training to evade them again. Chances are, we'll find out the location before they even get near him. Shield agents…"

"…recruits, Nick. Roj isn't a full-fledged agent yet, only a recruit…," countered Natasha, sipping her coffee, the bitter taste settling on her tongue.

"Agent…recruit…the janitor who works the graveyard shift, the point is Natasha, every affiliate of SHIELD comes to the table knowing full well that casualties are a part of the job. You out of all people should know this".

"If he wasn't sure…if he wasn't ready, he wouldn't have relayed the final message, Natasha," Steve spoke this time, his warm eyes trying to search for the Natasha he once fought alongside with, "We're going to have to act accordingly. It may give us more info on the whereabouts of Pierce, not to mention the possibility of rescuing Bucky".

"We're not operating on full power but we're gradually increasing our resources," Fury said, "We could use all the help we can get. We could certainly use someone with your skill set, Agent Romanoff"

Romanoff turned to Steve, her gaze holding his own. Something about her was different, Steve noticed.

"Your friend…Barnes," the former spy retorted coldly, "He's gone".

* * *

Hydra base

About a half hour later, the door opened and the soldier met the gaze of Pierce. The older man was alone and he made his way to the chained man at the centre, his face evoking a sinister look.

"You put one of the guards in an induced coma, soldier," Pierce began sternly, "the force of your arm… your _other_ arm, caused severe internal bleeding in his brain. _Hemorrhaging._ Not a good way to die".

The soldier did not reply, neither did he look at Pierce, simply choosing to gaze coldly ahead.

"The other guard suffered a broken arm. They'll stitch him up…he'll heal. It will be painful though, extremely so", Pierce continued, taunting the soldier with an imposing guilt, "Certain actions have consequences, _son_. Punishment is nature's way of restoring balance. _Karma_. You understand that, don't you, _son_?".

The soldier winced at Pierce's use of the term 'son'. He was doing it again—trying to purposely initiate some false connection with the soldier so as to keep him under obligation; to command submission. In fact, the more the soldier interacted with Pierce, the more aware he became of the man's manipulative tendencies. For a brief moment, he felt remorse for the damage he had unwittingly done to the two guards. This however, soon faded, when he reminded himself that they were associated with Hydra, and that they were loyal to Pierce; the man he had come to hate.

He ignored Pierce's remarks, choosing to touch upon something different.

"My file," the soldier started, "How accurate is it?"

The question startled Pierce who was not expecting it.

"We've done the best we could, son", Piece countered, "We can specifically confirm the events stated in the file, as those that were a part of your past"

_There he goes again_, the soldier thought, jaws tightening.

"What about the man on the helicarrier?"

Pierce was caught off-guard once again.

"What man?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"The man…Captain America…he said he knew me, he knew my…"

"He was lying to you, soldier," Pierce interrupted, irritation in his voice, "The man lied to you. He was your enemy for God's sake. Of course he would have said anything to throw you off guard".

The Winter Soldier looked skeptical and Pierce pressed his case.

"I had a brief word with the psychiatrist, son. Your memories—they're fickle. It's a part of the healing process. Your mind is a hotbed of confusion right now; in its quest to piece together a broken past, sometimes, it creates new memories…false ones. It's your mind's futile attempt to form a timeline; to make sense of the senseless"

As Pierce said this, he approached the soldier, coming down to meet the chained man at eye level. The soldier simply ignored this, choosing to stare ahead.

"You have to trust our ability to help you with finding out about your past…James"

The utterance of that word…_that name_; it did not serve to invoke any empathy from the soldier. Pierce patted the younger man lightly on his back, then reached around and unlocked the vibranium cuffs himself. The soldier was surprised at this display of bravado by the man. There were no guards in the room, no one to watch over the old man. If the soldier wanted to, he could have killed Pierce on the spot, right here and now with none the wiser. And yet, he was momentarily stunned at Pierce's reference to him by his real name—one that bore an indescribable feeling; one that was hard to place.

Pierce turned to approach the exit, but before walking through the door, the older man stopped to relay one final word to the now unchained man.

"We have a mission tomorrow. Nothing complicated, just an extraction so you won't have to get your paws dirty," Pierce grinned, "Mission brief will be at 0500 hours; Rumlow will take the lead. I expect you there on time, James".

"Don't call me that," the soldier said sharply, looking straight at Pierce, "That name—_James_; don't call me by that name. _I'm not him_".

As if to illustrate the seriousness of this request, the soldier stood up from the chair, all 6 plus feet, all 260 pounds of his solid yet lean frame and approached the area where Pierce stood. The older man was shorter, reaching slightly above the soldier's bare chest. The soldier came to stand before Pierce and for the first time, he thought he detected a hint of fear in the man before him; perhaps a creeping sense of intimidation…of being the prey instead of the predator.

"I need further details of past missions," the soldier spoke, looking Pierce stark in the eye, "Every unit I was in, every comrade I worked alongside, every _enemy_ I fought against; I want all of it". It was brief and stern. No room for negotiating.

It almost sounded like an order, Pierce thought, something completely unexpected on the soldier's part. Perhaps they were wrong about him.

Pierce nodded, "Of course, son. We'll organize it for you as soon as possible", then, "0500 hours, soldier. Better get some rest".

The Winter Soldier ignored the man, brushing past him. He made his way to the guards waiting at the elevator to escort him to his room.

On the way to his quarters, the soldier saw something that caught his attention; the guard walking in front of him had a rectangular-shaped card strapped to his belt—his security pass. It was different to the soldier's own pass, however, in that, it had an additional green stripe across the front. The soldier had noticed this peculiar feature on several other guards and higher ranking personnel operating within the facility—their access cards often taking them to areas restricted by his own security pass. He made a mental note of this, giving a brief nod to the guards before closing the door to his room.

Alexander Pierce looked on as the soldier was led away to his quarters. A few moments later, he made his way to the elevator himself, pressing the button for level 8—the floor housing his office. On the way there, he made a phone call, one that went straight to the point.

"What's the status update on the machine?"

* * *

What made a normal heart? What was 'normal' anyway, apart from being grossly overrated?

Natasha Romanoff never put herself in a position of compromise, especially where relationships were concerned. Sure, some short-termed engagements with her comrades during missions did not bother her; it had allowed for a taste of normalcy. Still, their benefits lay in the fact that they were merely temporary. In that period, she was loyal to the core; anything after and…well, she never stuck around to find out.

She had learnt a long time ago that her life was far from conventional and as such, her path did not require her to conform to the conventions of typical social relationships; _or romantic ones, for that matter. _You get close to people, and soon there's an unspoken obligation to uphold some kind of sentiment on your end. It was almost contractual. _I scratch your back, you scratch mine_. Whereas, you keep them at a distance, and you won't feel so bad when it comes time to suddenly sever all ties with them; to drop them unexpectedly…_or perhaps even kill them_. Like that time when Natasha put a few bullets in the back of one James Buchanan Barnes—her fellow comrade. Of course, back then, he was known by a different name.

So when they'd asked Natasha Romanoff to be a part of the new mission against Hydra—one that would help thaw out The Winter Soldier—she had politely declined.

* * *

**Thank you for reading/commenting.**


	5. That Old, Familiar Feeling

****AU**: Thanks for stopping by! This chapter is pretty lengthy (it can be almost two-three chapters); I thought I'd post it, as this will be my last update for at least 2 weeks—I have exams on very soon! Hopefully I'll still be able to continue this story soon after.

Just an FYI: Contains strong language.

**Thanks for reading xo**

* * *

Hydra

0400 hours

The vicinity surrounding the base was deserted—the sound of chirping birds being the only indication of life amidst the otherwise desolate area. It was almost dawn in Washington D.C. yet the cold air of the previous night lingered on, wafting in the light breeze that occasionally shook the calm of the atmosphere. It was relatively quiet on the inside of the building as well, with most of the agents recuperating in the comfort of their own homes. Pierce and several other higher-ups had retired during the night before—the temptation of domestic bliss overpowering the bland surroundings of the base quarters.

Standing in his room on one of the higher levels, Brock Rumlow stood facing the open window, a cup of hot black coffee in his hand. He had been privately briefed by Pierce the night before, in regards to a new mission—an extraction; something he was keen to delve right into. The past few weeks had been a slow burn, with Hydra still cutting their losses and re-grouping. He was feeling a little clean and wanted to change that as soon as possible.

Taking a sip of his coffee, he made his way to the small table beside the window, leaning over to scan the open file that lay atop. It briefly outlined the details of the mission as well as illustrated any possible targets. He was hoping he wouldn't have to draw blood today, yet the possibility did not bother him considering the career he had so vehemently signed up for. The mission was recon-based—a _stick it in_, _pull it out_ job at the home of one of Pierce's former associates who had severed ties with the old man due to ethical differences. Of course, that wasn't going to stop Pierce, who had organized a small team to intercept his former colleague; or rather, the important file placed carefully in a secured safe at the home office of the man.

Rumlow was not aware of the exact details contained within the file, although Pierce had alluded to the information as being so significant—it would be game-changing in its execution. Pierce had specifically ordered Rumlow to present the folder straight to him after extraction, against the inquisitive minds of his comrades; as such, the latter had obliged.

Rumlow took another sip of his coffee then rid himself of the empty paper cup, making his way to the elevator. On the way, he radioed his second-in-command, ordering a round-up of the team at the foyer in 50 minutes.

* * *

The Winter Soldier had already awoken long before the given time of the briefing. Last night had been different, he realized, as his thoughts briefly regressed to the dream that had accompanied his sleep. He had not had a nightmare; at least, not in the conventional sense. Instead, his mind kept re-playing the memory of his most recent recollection—that of the red-haired woman engaging with him as her body had swiftly entwined with his. Where the memory was merely a highlight of the full reel of his experiences, it was a step in the right direction that piqued his curiosity—her presence was getting stronger every time his mind reversed and replayed the experience in his dream. He would find out about her soon enough.

After a quick shower, he made his way to the elevator that took him to level 2 of the building—the doors opening up to a huge mess hall. He had not been to the area before, although the guards—his escorts—had raved about the quality of the available food.

He briefly examined the sight before him, noting that it was mostly empty except for the table at the left-hand corner that was occupied by a few Hydra agents. They were covered in kevlar and protective padding, and he deduced them to be the team he would soon be accompanying, on the coming mission. After filling a tray of food, he made his way to the empty table near the agents, sitting alone as he hungrily savored the food. The guards had been right.

* * *

It was 4:45 when the soldier finally made his way down to the foyer of the building—the briefing spot that Rumlow had specified earlier. Where Pierce preferred the comfort of a board room to detail his orders, Rumlow only required the confines of an empty space, large enough to hold his current team—five of them in total, a driver included.

The soldier was covered in his armor now—the gear straining to hug his broad chest like an old, familiar friend. Pulling up his rifle in his arms, he made a few security checks before hauling it over one shoulder. He approached the rest of his team, coming to stand beside one of the agents who nodded at him and punched him playfully on the arm. _The afterglow of camaraderie._ The man was dressed in civilian clothing, yet the sight outline of a kevlar vest could be detected under his attire.

Slightly taken aback by the surprising, yet friendly gesture, he nodded back as a half smile curved along his lips—not genuine, simply courteous. He had to remind himself that they were Hydra, and as such, his enemy even if by default. Rumlow came to stand at the head of the group and began.

"All right kids, listen up," he mocked, "Target is a Dr. Adrian Pasadena, former head of the R&D facility at NSF, specifically overseeing the Applied Sciences Department. Although he, himself, is not on our list; it's what he's keeping under lock and key at his home that we want".

Rumlow distributed a couple of portable GPS systems around the group—the target's house automatically illuminating on a grid, along with colored indicators displaying the standing positions of the rest of the team. The soldier attached the device to the band on his wrist, and tacked on a _bluetooth_ piece behind his ear. Rumlow continued.

"The loot consists of two parts, a portable USB secured at NSF headquarters and a folder kept in Pasadena's home; Hydra was successful in extracting the USB yesterday at 2100 hours, but we need a few of the codes in the folder to access the information contained on the device".

Rumlow moved around the area as he relayed his orders, surveying his men from top to bottom, making sure they were all strapped up and ready to kill. He continued, activating a digital clock—a countdown—that displayed itself across the top right corner of the GPS. _The mission was timed_, the soldier realized; they would have to be fast…efficient.

"According to our mole, Pasadena won't be home during the day, which gives us a relatively smooth run," Rumlow said, adding, "Don't hold assumptions, however; treat it like the weather. Be prepared for _anything._ Let's go".

* * *

At exactly 5 am, the team rolled out in a black SUV—its dark tinted windows securing an additional sense of privacy. The main highway was only just being lit up by the onset of dawn, and the SUV joined a few vehicles on the otherwise desolate highway, garnering no suspicious looks, no awkward glances. Anyone could have been a passenger to the SUV, even a soccer mom and her kids.

An hour or so later, and the vehicle holding the agents stopped at an aligning street to the one where Pasadena's house stood—a beautiful 3 storey structure enclosed in a security fence. The driveway was empty and no one appeared to be home—just as the mole had relayed.

Rumlow turned to the men seated at the back of the vehicle.

"Okay," he began, "Here's how it's going down".

As he said this, he handed out sturdy leather jackets to the agents and the soldier.

"Crow is remotely hacking into the security system as we speak. It should be disabled by the time Munroe roles up to the fence. We press the red button, head down the rabbit hole".

The soldier nodded, meeting Rumlow's gaze. He realized why one of the team members had worn civilian clothing. Rumlow soon confirmed his theory.

"We reverse up to the house, ass backwards and wait till Monroe checks out the exterior," Rumlow continued, nodding to the man in the civilian clothing, "Munroe here, is playing the role of _Mr. Tourist_ today. He's going to ring the bell, call out to the house, make sure there aren't any unwanted guests. If and _only if_ he gets the clear, he'll call it in".

Rumlow continued.

"Crow, Syd, put on the leather jackets. You too soldier," he said, holding his arms out, "Give me your rifles"

Rumlow tucked the rifles in a duffle bag and zipped it up. The others put on their jackets, which, when combined with their standard issue black pants, allowed for a slightly inconspicuous appearance; less _trained killers_, more _rebel bikers without a cause_. The desert eagle holstered to the side of each of their waists was the only indication of the chaos to come; it, too, was covered by the cut of their jackets.

After the breach was complete, the vehicle rolled towards the front gate of the house, gradually slowing to a stop and backing up against the curb. With the system disabled, the fence opened with an automatic click and the SUV reversed into the driveway, almost touching the door of the garage. It came to a stop and stood for a few moments as the heat of the situation gradually settled. The IT guy, Crow, completed the hack and the system shut the fence.

_Like nothing ever happened._

The soldier looked on as Munroe, _Mr. Tourist_, gingerly stepped out of the SUV, briefly examining the area. It was secluded under the cover of ever growing trees and shrubs, making their presence less evident.

Mr. Tourist shut the door and made his way to the front of the house. The Winter Soldier watched as the man rang the bell once, then a couple of times more. He hollered out towards the front door, eventually making his way around the back area, the faint tone of his voice echoing slightly against the silence of the enclosure. The man had disappeared for a while until a low crackle on the radio alerted them that they were good to go.

Rumlow was the first one out.

Munroe arrived in time to see the rest of the team step out, their leather jackets covering a good deal of their armor. At a distance, they were normal. _Civilian_; the duffle bag holding their rifles, notwithstanding. Munroe stepped into the driver's seat of the SUV and waited.

The team made their way around the back door, swiftly picking the lock. Nothing was broken, everything was fixable. Pasadena would only know of the theft when he went to check for the folder; by then, it would be too late.

The men were inside now.

Munroe waited in the car monitoring their positions on the GPS. According to the grid, they were already in the office. _Bingo._

Approximately 20 minutes later, and the team were outside, making their way to the parked vehicle, the folder secured in Rumlow's backpack. 5 minutes after that and they were on the street outside the house.

_Incognito._

The air was noticeably calmer following the extraction of the folder, a few light-hearted jibes being exchanged by some of the men. It was only the creeping presence of a tail-gating cop car that caught the attention of Munroe, the driver.

"Rumlow," he said, "We got company" nodding to the reflection in the mirror.

Rumlow turned around seeing what his comrade saw, an irritated "fuck" taking the form of his frustration.

"Just keep driving Munroe," Rumlow said, looking back and forth between the windshield and the cop car. There were other vehicles on the road, other civilians. They wouldn't be as inconspicuous out here as they were at the house.

The Soldier eyed the car gradually wheeling after them…stalking the SUV they were in. His continued stare made him aware of another car, unmarked but obvious, tailing slightly behind. _A second car!_

_Fuck._

The SUV carried along at a normal pace, keeping within the speed limit and the two cars behind it, followed in tow, carrying on for a few minutes.

Rumlow caught the gaze of the soldier, catching sight of the second car himself. His mouth turned into a scowl as he turned to grip the IT guy, Crow, by the collar.

"I thought you said you disabled the system?" Rumlow growled lowly, a vicious tone to his voice.

"I…I did," came the stuttering reply, the guy obviously more scared of Rumlow than the cops, "It…I dunno…it could've been a fail-safe…"

"Just wait it out, Munroe," Rumlow interrupted, harshly pushing Syd to the side, "It's probably not for us…just drive"

As if in reply, the sudden flashing of bright lights—red and blue—followed by a brief sound of sirens as a high tension spread through the vehicle.

_Double. Fuck._

Rumlow looked back trying to assess the fragility of the situation. If the cops somehow got wind of their real mission, things would turn sour very quickly.

Both police cars were tailing the SUV now, their sirens blaring on and off, their lights flashing continually.

_Pull over you assholes,_ the sirens seemed to scream.

Rumlow grabbed the duffle and unzipped it, distributing the rifles. He motioned for the driver to stop the car in the middle of the road. Keep the engine running. They weren't going to be here long.

He looked straight at the Winter Solder…nodded.

_Do your thing_, the nod seemed to say.

Almost mechanically, the Winter Soldier reached into the duffel and pulled out something familiar—his mask. He smirked, pulling the mask over his head, its grooves and mold fitting perfectly over his face. _That old, familiar feeling._ Despite the erratic nature of his life so far, one thing stayed constant—his need to survive...and his will to draw blood to ensure that survival. Mask on, he caught a brief glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror; his now menacing eyes were the only visible features on his face. _Diabolic._

_Time for someone to die._

He cocked his rifle and nodded at Rumlow, then slowly opened the door on his side, pushing it with his foot…letting it slide gradually outwards. A silent calm coated the otherwise tense air…only for a moment, then…

He looked over to Rumlow who motioned for him to stay put. The rest of the team, Syd and Crow were behind in support. There was no movement from the opposing vehicles, their sirens and lights having been turned off.

Rumlow slowly stepped from behind the door, hands in the air…unarmed and raising an invisible white flag.

He took a few steps to the right of the SUV, his arms still raised and attempted to walk slowly to the closest police car attempting a false surrender...when…

"Aww shit," a shout, "Get down! Get behind the door!"

It was the driver, Munroe, who had shouted, as a reign of fire started from the opposing vehicles.

_What the fuck? _

_Why did they fire first?_

The Winter Soldier flung himself behind the door of the car, opening rapid fire in retaliation on the police vehicles. He caught Rumlow out of the corner of his eye doing the same on the other side of the SUV. The occupants in the cop cars had flung their own doors open, taking shelter behind the bullet-proof metal, the influx of bullets making a cluster of holes and dents all over the vehicles which were now surrounded by shards of broken glass.

A minute later and the firing subsided as the Winter Soldier saw the onset of chaos in the surrounding area. People everywhere…civilians, pedestrians, mothers, daughters…everyone had recoiled in horror at the open display of violence, running in the opposite direction to the chaos. The Winter Soldier stayed calm, prone to the severity of the situation. His heart rate slowed down to aid his mind in processing every small spec of the scenario.

The soldier ducked and fired again, then got down and rolled into a side alley. He crouched behind a postbox, and started re-loading. The reality of the situation hit him then.

The cops...the men in the police cars…

They weren't cops.

Law enforcement personnel don't operate on a _shoot first, ask questions later_ paradigm. They're not even legally allowed to shoot suspects.

_Shit_

Pasadena;

The men…they were hired guns, kept on watch by Pasadena under the guise of law enforcement.

There must have been a secondary alarm, something that the team had somehow missed.

Shit.

The firing had stopped and the soldier looked to his side, noticing a hint of red at the front of their vehicle.

Munro; he'd been hit, _point blank_. Even from the distance, the soldier could see the dead of his eyes, as they rolled into the back of his head. Clean shot. _Impressive, if it wasn't so gruesome._

Rumlow and Crow were crouched inside the SUV, bloodied and cut. Syd…

The soldier's eyes darted back and forth…then to the other side…finding…

_**Syd.**_

The agent was further down the same alley, crouched down, his arm clutching the lower left part of his abdomen. He had been shot. Whether the bullet had penetrated the kevlar remained to be seen.

The soldier turned back to the SUV, catching Rumlow's eye. The latter held up a hand, a round, metal object clutched tightly in his palm. _A mini grenade._ Perfect for dispensing shrapnel in less than perfect times like these. The soldier smirked, knowing what was coming as Rumlow held up five fingers. On his headset, he heard Rumlow make a low countdown…

On 5…

The soldier reached down, adjusting the scope of his rifle…

4...

Re-loaded a few slugs—_smoothbore_; hard on accuracy but that was irrelevant for the natural-born sharp-shooter.

3…

He positioned the top of the rifle slightly above the post-box…only just…

2…

One steely blue eye pressed against the scope, the opposing vehicles coming into focus…

1….

Finger on the trigger and…

Rumlow threw the grenade at the police vehicles, the blast causing a permanent displacement within the immediate vicinity. Two of the men from the cars, bloodied from the grenade, stumbled out from behind the doors, and right into the firing line of the Winter Soldier….

_Perfect._

With two swift flicks of his finger, he gunned them down…

One through the head; the other through the chest.

Two slugs, soviet issue, armor piercing. _Smoothbore_, practically untraceable.

_Bye-bye retirement._

The Winter soldier crouched back down and cocked his rifle, satisfaction burning through his eyes.

"There's another one left…behind the second car".

It was Rumlow's weary voice through the headset.

"I can see him…he's handling some sort of RPG," Rumlow said through gritted teeth, "They aren't taking any prisoners, soldier."

Then to the rest of the team, Rumlow ordered, "Roll out, regroup at 10-5".

10-5, being the code for the Hydra base.

Moments later, the last man standing from the police vehicles stumbled slightly and came to rest against the side of the destroyed vehicle, a large weapon in his hand. The soldier guessed it was the RPG Rumlow had referenced and quickly removed his Desert Eagle, firing a few blind rounds at the man to throw him off. It seemed to do the trick, if only momentarily, causing a brief disturbance to the man's concentration.

Then…the Winter Soldier ran, his powerful stride carrying him further away from the ambush and into the deep end of the alley towards his fallen comrade, Syd. He never looked back, only hearing the sound of a deafening explosion and feeling the sharp spray of glass and metal and bone.

Still running, the soldier latched onto the collar of the fallen teammate mid-stride, propping one arm around his shoulder and with the man struggling to keep up with the fast pace of the soldier. They crossed street and pavement...a concrete jungle, finally coming to stop under the arch of an old-looking building.

The chaos had attracted the attention of the police now…_the real police_. He silently hoped Rumlow had the presence of mind to retrieve the bag holding the folder—the freakin' _Holy Grail_ of their mission. Without it, they were as good as dead.

The soldier held his GPS to his line of sight, pressing a few buttons on the dial—evoking a mini hologram from the device. It showed 4 triangles of various colours—one for every member who still had a heart-beat. Rumlow's blue triangle appeared to be moving farther from the blast radius. Good, he was alive, if only to serve as a transporter of the package.

The soldier put down his rifle and dismantled it, doing the same for his team mate's instrument. He shoved the parts haphazardly into his backpack and reloaded his Desert Eagle. Looking around the area, he surveyed his surroundings properly for the first time since they'd taken temporary refuge. The building was away from the main highway and secluded enough to provide partial cover, at least till the onset of dusk. He positioned his comrade against the wall, the injured man waiting in the wings, then took a few cautionary steps and sussed out more of the environment. It was a retirement home, he realized, upon seeing the bold sign propped at the front. It appeared to be fairly quiet and the Winter Soldier went back to his comrade, pulling the man towards the back area of the building.

The back entrance led straight and right, into what looked like a laundry area, a couple of washing machines running against the wall. The soldier could make this out slightly as he peered into a small window at the side of the building. There were a few employees pacing the far interior but they did not seem to confer in the laundry room.

The soldier looked at the time on his GPS. It was past 9 am, and the sun had recently risen to a quarter of its highest point in the sky. It would soon get brighter and their prospects of being under shadow would diminish in the next hour or so.

The soldier peered through the window once more and upon seeing that the area was clear, executed a sharp hit to the window with his elbow. The noise from the running machines in the laundry area helped to downplay the noise of the shattering window. Brushing the remnants of glass from the pane, he reached in and slid the aluminium casing aside, making it more accessible.

Then he made his way back to his comrade and lifted the man by his shoulders bringing him to the open window. The area was still relatively quiet and the soldier hoisted the man up to the window and pushed him inside. Surveying the exterior surroundings one final time, the soldier propped himself up on the pane with one smooth motion and dropped into the room.

* * *

Hydra base

1130 hours

"What do you mean, _complications_?" Pierce questioned angrily as he paced in front of a stiff Rumlow, "How complicated was it, Rumlow? It was an in-out job for Christ's sake; we even had the mole TELL us that Pasadena wasn't going to be in our way!"

"I know, sir," Rumlow replied, his ego slightly demoralized, "We...we encountered some problems...unforseen ones with the security system. Our guy, he failed to..."

"Don't put this on some two bit IT nerd, Rumlow," Pierce interrupted, "I put you in charge; _specifically you_, because I thought you could get the job done without any interruptions"

"We got the folder, Sir," Rumlow pleaded.

"And now, you've also got the attention of local and federal law enforcement on your tail," Pierce countered, taking a seat at his desk, "What's the status on the team?"

"Four alive, Sir; one casualty—Munroe. He...he bit the bullet, Sir. They opened fire first, we were caught off-guard. They weren't cops, Sir"

"Round them up, Rumlow," the old man said, finishing the conversation, "Don't fuck it up".

"Yes, Sir", came the reply, "Crow and I touched base 20 minutes ago. He's fine—a couple of minor injuries but nothing unfixable. Syd and Barnes..._the soldier_, they're still out. No word yet; their headsets are off-line, but they're showing up on the grid—Mayland's Community, a retirement village," Rumlow smirked slightly at this.

He continued, "They're posted about 10 kilometres north-west of the ambush site. You want me to get them a ride, Sir?"

"No," Pierce replied, nodding for Rumlow to take his exit, "There'll be blues roaming the area. They think it's a cartel deal gone sour—can you believe it? Leave them be for now; the soldier knows what he's doing. He'll come home".

Rumlow nodded in respect then left Pierce's office.

* * *

Sometime after Midday

Mayland's Community Home

The soldier and his comrade continued to seek refuge in the laundry room, yet the service timetable displayed on the front wall posed a significant problem for them both. According to the schedule, the next shift for laundry service took place in 60 minutes. Someone, an employee, would likely be down here very soon.

"We could always kill them," the injured man—Syd—had said nonchalantly, like it was the most mundane thing in the world. _To a person with his skill-set, it probably was,_ the soldier concluded.

His comrade had been grazed by a bullet that had partially pierced his armour, yet the exit wound was not severe; certainly not a liability. The soldier had cleaned what he could of it, and stitched up the small opening in the wound with help from the make-shift first-aid kit the man carried on his person.

"No one dies," the Winter Soldier had replied sternly to the proposition, "This is a shift roster, which means that whomever they send down here has to go back to check off their name from the timetable".

"No one returns, they'll know something came up," the soldier continued.

_Shit._

"I have a plan," the soldier simply said, reaching down to retrieve the blade secured against his waist. Running his finger slightly along the edge, he could feel the sharp cut of the cold metal. _Like it was born yesterday._ He flipped it in his fingers instinctively and re-attached it to its case.

"Turn on your head-set and try to get a connection to HQ," he continued, still staring at the schedule, "My device has been damaged and we need to get out of here soon".

His comrade nodded, making off to the other side of the area and setting down his backpack on a small table. The man removed his ear-piece and connected it to a port on his phone, hoping something good would come from it.

The soldier drew closer to the schedule running his finger along the list of names on the sheet before him, his eyes concentrating intently at the task at hand. A moment later and he stopped abruptly, coming to rest on...

_2 PM; Jennifer Walters._

His finger tapped briefly on the resting spot and his eyes narrowed in, as he registered the name in his mind.

Jennifer Walters; 2 PM.

After her shift, the next one only occurred at 7 PM. They wouldn't be around for that.

The soldier made some quick deductions regarding the reality of the situation. She was a woman—one that was likely to be of average height and build, incomparable to his own stats; that, there, bore the notion that he could overpower her...intimidate her into getting what he wanted. That's not to say he had an absolute power over every woman he had encountered. _Not at all_; a few of them had most certainly surprised him in both, their prowess and their combative skill. He had initially under-estimated them and as such had suffered the consequences of upholding such poor judgement.

His mind briefly flashed back to his engagement with the red-haired woman. It had damaged his ego, somewhat—the thought of someone small, seemingly non-threatening, gaining the better hand even momentarily. He pushed the thought from his head.

The facts of the current situation were different to those pertaining to his time in training and in the field. This woman was _just_ an orderly and the possibility of her being a formidable threat or even a capable fighter was highly unlikely; _even laughable._

He smirked half-heartedly at the notion.

He did not intend to kill her. The plan was to intimidate her enough to make her a partial hostage. Perhaps even threaten her with unimaginable violence if she disobeyed him. He would make her check her name off from the list so as to not raise any suspicion from her superiors. She would come back to the laundry room or risk the execution of his threats. Their only other choice was to tie her up and keep her in the laundry room, at least, until the fall of dusk.

Of course, if she felt brave, he would have to put an end to her life and risk it. He held no aversion to this possible outcome. At the end of the day, come what may, he was still trained to kill.

The soldier went over to his comrade and relayed the plan...or something like it. It was a few minutes until 2 PM and he went over to the door of the laundry room, standing behind it. Then, he reached into the back of his waist and unhooked his mask, sliding it over his face. He reached further across and pulled out his blade, twirling it habitually around his fingers—again, on instinct.

The soldier drew in a couple of breaths, and waited.

A few moments later and he could hear the soft patter of footsteps, gradually getting louder as they drew closer. He tightened his grip on the blade and eyed his comrade who was crouched in the corner beside him. Ready.

The footsteps came to an abrupt halt at the door as the woman seemed to fumble for her keys. After twisting the right one in, she reached for the knob and opened the door, oblivious to the fate that awaited her.

The soldier eyed the woman as she walked in—she was short and small—easy to handle. _His assumption had been right._ The woman had not noticed the intruders right away, making her way to the first washing machine and setting the basket atop it whilst humming softly. It was only when the soldier slammed his foot against the door to close it, that the woman turned around, stunned at the sight before her. Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth to scream but the soldier lunged forward, violently shoving her against the wall and covering her mouth with his hand. His eyes—menacing and cold—bore into her terrified ones; the mask that covered his lower face, only emphasized his hellish appearance.

She whimpered under his touch as her gaze made its way to the knife in his hands.

"There's a list with your name on it, correct?" the soldier prodded, his voice low and stern.

Her eyes darted back and forth as a brief sense of confusion spread across her twisted face.

"The list—the schedule," the soldier persisted, agitation latching onto his tone, "The one that needs to be checked off after every shift?"

Knowingly, the woman nodded and the soldier briefly lightened his hold over her mouth...prompting her to almost let out a scream.

_Fuck._

He tightened his grip again, harder this time and brought the blade to her line of sight.

"Try that again and this ends up in your jugular" the soldier threatened as he pushed her back into the wall once more, her head hitting the hard concrete.

His comrade came to stand beside him, smirking at the woman. He was enjoying this, the soldier realised.

"Anyone expecting you after you check out?" the other man asked.

No, the woman enacted. The soldier's comrade patted him on the back lightly and went towards the table to continue working on the connection.

The woman briefly followed his form before turning back on the strange man pressing her down.

"You...do what I tell you, nothing happens to you," the soldier continued, blade still at her eye level, "You try to act tough, and it won't end well for you, understand?".

The woman nodded, hurt from the metal of his arm pushing into her form.

Who...what the hell _was_ he?

The soldier, still holding the woman in position, reached to the back of his waist and pulled out a small device, attaching it around the woman's wrist.

"You see this?" he raised her wrist to her eye level now, examining her frightened expression, "It's a compact explosive, set to go off at the flick of a switch. You try anything, _anything_, and you lose that arm of yours. Maybe even your life" he said, through gritted teeth.

He continued, "Take the laundry, deliver it upstairs and check your name from the roster. Head straight back down. Take more than 10 minutes and you lose a body part"

He nodded sternly and the woman nodded between tears.

He released his grip whilst still keeping his blade trained on her as she scurried to fill up the basket, sobbing and shivering in between. Then she made her way out of the door and upstairs.

In reality, the device was just a harmless tracker. Still, it put the fear of God and more in her. After a few minutes she arrived to the room, where the soldier pulled her in roughly and dragged her to the corner. He had made a makeshift rope out of curtains nearby, and used it to bind her wrists and feet. The soldier left the tracker on her; _it would keep her in check_. He looked at the frightened woman, his steel blue eyes shining against the black of his mask. Slowly he raised a finger to his lips. _Quiet..._

* * *

The time spent waiting for the onset of dusk was both, challenging and welcoming. It frustrated the soldier yet it granted him some time away from the watchful eyes at the base. After tonight, he would be presented with more detailed information regarding his past missions; in doing so, he was guaranteed closure for some of the significant events of his past...and the few _significant people_ present alongside him.

The air was starting to get cooler now, and the sunlight was fading. He looked towards his comrade who was still hunched over the small table, his luck with the connection slowly slipping away. His Bluetooth set was probably damaged as well, the soldier thought, making his way to the window. If they could not get in contact with the base, they would most likely have to make their own way back to HQ; that involved stealing a vehicle—something the soldier would rather do under the cover of darkness. Especially since the cops were more than likely patrolling the area since the ambush earlier in the day.

He walked over to the window and looked out, then checked the time on his GPS system.

It was daylight saving in D.C. allowing the darkness to come sooner. In an hour's time, at around 5:45 pm, they would be able to make a move out of this place. He contemplated on the possibility of stealing any of the vehicles parked nearby.

They may be alarmed which would draw unwanted attention. Additionally, the retirement village boasted a secured underground parking lot that would likely be guarded. They had to exit this place with no casualties lest the murders be somehow traced back to them.

Widening his eyes, a thought suddenly entered his mind. The soldier turned to look at the bound woman. She had her head down in defeat, staring blankly at the floor. She looked to be about 30, so she probably knew how to drive. Her shoes were clean, unusually so—it was very likely that she did not walk nor use the any public transport service to arrive at her job. The soldier approached the woman, bringing the fear with him.

"Your car," he asked, "Where is it?"

The woman looked stunned. She opened her mouth but no words came out.

"Where is your car?!" the soldier repeated, a hint of anger clinging to his voice. He reached down and grabbed her by the cloth she was bound by, yanking her up and pushing her against the wall. _Hard_. The soldier brought his blade back against her neck.

"I'll ask one more time", he growled, his low voice breaking down any sense of bravado she had managed to uphold thus far.

"It's...I...I have my car...the keys are in my bag," the woman stammered through a shaky voice.

Her bag.

Shit.

"Where is it?" the soldier asked, still pressing her against the wall.

"On this level...the locker room, down the hall...I can...I can get it for you if you let me go...please".

The soldier looked at her incredulously.

"Nice try," he simply said, tracing the tip of his blade over her form, towards the bound cloth that wrapped around her wrists and feet. With a swift motion, he tore her make-shift shackles, loosening his grip on her neck. His eyes looked into hers then straight at the device attached to her wrist. _Do anything funny and you will regret it_—that's what his glare seemed to convey.

He grabbed her roughly and made his way to the door. Before he exited the room, the soldier looked back on his comrade.

"Wait here," he commanded, "I'll be back".

Keeping a tight grip on the woman's arm, he opened the door slowly, peering around the corner to make sure the area was clear. Satisfied, the soldier left the laundry area, dragging the woman down the hallway towards the locker room, one hand on the pistol strapped to his waist.

They reached the area that housed a series of old-looking metal lockers. The retirement home had obviously not bothered much with maintenance—some of the lockers covered in rust and chipped paint. On one of the walls was a notice board, with various clippings—rosters, notes, photos—tacked onto it.

"Which one?" the soldier asked.

"556," came the reply.

He hauled her along, practically dragging her across the room to her locker. He didn't ask for her keys. His arm, _his metal arm_, reached up towards the small lock secured on the handle, and yanked it off like it was nothing. The woman saw the glint of vibranium for the first time and bit her lip.

_What was he?_

The soldier reached inside and pulled out the woman's bag, thrusting the contents onto the floor.

"Underground or sidewalk," he asked, rummaging through the fallen items then picking out a set of keys.

"What?" she asked, confused.

"Where is your car parked?" the soldier repeated, "On the sidewalk or in the parking lot underground?"

"S...Sidewalk," the woman whispered, "Please...please, don't take me with you. Please!" the woman pleaded, tugging on her arm.

The soldier looked at her intensely, noting the fear in her wide eyes. She probably had a kid or two; a cat perhaps, or maybe a boyfriend or husband. He looked at her ring finger; it was bare. Gripping her arm tightly, he made his way across the room. His face was still masked and his eyes darted around the area, trying to suss out any potential threats. On his way to the exit, he halted abruptly, pulling the woman to a stop beside him. Something had caught his eye.

He tiled his head slightly, narrowing his eyes at the notice board to his side as a damning realisation dawned upon him.

Slowly, he made his way to the board, hauling his hostage along; for those few moments, he was completely oblivious to the dangers of the current situation—his eyes fixated curiously on the sight before him. Amidst the mundane sea of daily schedules and motivational phrases tacked up, there was a small sign. It was handmade and pinned to the middle of the board; the words, "_Lest We Forget_" were scrawled across boldly, in blue. It was what lay directly below this however, that captivated the Winter Soldier. He looked at it, frozen by the implication of what he saw.

It was a newspaper clipping in colour; one of those 'Remembrance' pieces, columnists often put out to honour the fallen soldiers of past wars. The Winter Soldier continued to stare, as he initially recognized one of the faces in the photo of the article—there he was, in his military gear, rifle in hand and a hearty smile on his face. Yet, it was not the image of himself that tore at the soldier's core. It was that, of the man standing beside him holding an arm around his shoulders, a white star covering his chest; the man's smile evoked a warmth that seemed to thaw somewhat, the cold that clung to the soldier.

The man's face was familiar.

The Winter Soldier turned his gaze slightly lower to the caption of the photo, his eyes widening as they danced over the words. A cocktail of emotion swirled within his gut as he started to be consumed by both, grief and anger.

_James 'Bucky' Barnes celebrates his recue by fellow Howling Commando and childhood friend, Captain Steven Rogers._

The soldier pursed his lips in frustration, as he took in short, sharp breaths. His fist curled into a ball now, and his grip tightened dangerously over the woman's arm—a slight whimper escaping her mouth.

"How accurate is this," the soldier growled lowly, turning to the woman, "When is this from? Answer me!" he prodded, shaking her up.

"I...we clip articles sometimes," the woman replied obliviously.

The soldier looked closer at the article, noting the date; it was recent, only a few weeks preceding the date today. He hastily unpinned the clipping, folding it and tucking it into his pocket.

"Come on," he grunted, pulling the woman with him.

After making his way back to the laundry area, he dragged her back to her corner, re-fastening the binds around her wrists and ankles. This time, he tore a smaller piece of cloth from the curtain, and used it to cover her mouth. He reached down and pulled off the tracker from her wrist, eliciting somewhat of a relief from the woman. The person next on shift would get a surprise when they came down here in the next hour or so.

The soldier's comrade made his way to the twosome, still holding the broken device in his arm, obviously unsuccessful in his venture.

The soldier simply held up the car keys.

"Sidewalk," he said, then made his way to the broken window from this morning. He hauled himself over the pane and dropped out into the open of the surroundings, followed by his comrade. It was nearly dark now, the nearby trees forming creepy silhouettes in the blue-ish hue of the dusk.

The soldier did not ask the woman about her car; the keys were alarmed and he simply pressed on the trigger, alerting him to a loud sound and a brief flash of headlights from a car nearby—a blue sedan. He nodded sideways to his comrade who understood the hint and got into the passenger side. The soldier took the driver's seat and turned on the ignition. It was almost dark now. A minute later and both men were out of the vicinity.

* * *

Elsewhere...

Natasha Romanoff made her way from the small underground parking lot to the elevator of the building she resided within. Her head hurt and her cheeks were flushed—still burning from the myriad of emotion she felt upon having to walk away from the life that Fury had once blessed her with. She was slightly confused at this fact, questioning her otherwise stringent ability to simply let go—no strings attached. They had offered a lift to her place, when she'd said that she couldn't decide...that she didn't know where her loyalties lay anymore. Needless to say, the ride home was _awkward._

She sighed at her current situation as she opened the door to her apartment. Making her way to the lounge area, she flopped on the couch, but not before pouring herself a whiskey. _Straight_.

Turning on the television, she wondered about Steve's next move. He would probably set a plan in place...go after his friend. _The poor guy_, she thought, _he would likely be disappointed_. They were all so...hopped up on the idea of victory; so full of piss and vinegar that they never considered the possibility of losing the battle. Of course, if they did win...if Steve did succeed in getting his friend back, things would likely go south for her.

She shared more than a friendship with Steve. She had also shared something else—the history he had with James Barnes...The Winter Soldier; except where Steve's relationship involved a brotherly bond, her...experience had been slightly more...intimate; one that ended up going sour. _Lethally so._

She pushed the thought from her head, choosing to concentrate on the news playing on the t.v. It was the usual—crime, debt, sex and everything in between. She turned it off in disgust, as her eyes briefly scanned her surroundings.

There was a package on the kitchen counter that she had forgotten about. Gingerly, she got up from the couch and made her way towards it. It was generally unmarked except for an address on the cover. It looked as normal as ever.

Getting a knife from the drawer, she opened the package, emptying the contents onto the counter. She remembered then, as her eyes scanned the items strew before her.

A USB, a long leather wallet containing falsified documents and a single key.

Of course!

After the helicarrier incident, Natasha had made a few independent calls to some of her contacts from before her engagement with SHIELD. She had already been contemplating defecting...at least temporarily, from the now defunct organization; as such, she had called in a few favours regarding the possibility of being attached to privately funded assignments—mercs for hire, extractions, insider trading...things that would allow her to delve into a more comfortable role—that of a spy.

She'd called up one particular contact in Kiev, the contents of the package obviously being the doorway to a possible new path.

"Thanks, Barton," she muttered under her breath.

* * *

2000 hours

The soldier and his comrade drove under the dark cover of night. They had decided to take a detour to avoid reverting back to the path that had initially led them to Pasadena's house. The ambush area was still teaming with a few blues and reds, and it was probably yellow-taped off. Either way, they weren't taking any risks.

His comrade had turned on the radio to combat the uncomfortable silence brewing in the car. The soldier did not pay attention, lost instead in his thoughts.

He could not quantify the exact emotions that plagued him, yet, upon contemplating upon the recent onslaught of events, he settled on the feeling of betrayal.

They had lied to him.

_Lied and lied_ and continued to lie, despite the promise of helping him unlock the mystery surrounding his past.

_Pierce_...that old man, had looked him right in the eye, referred to him as 'son', held a hand on his shoulder and squeezed emphatically...or so it seemed. The man had lied to the soldier's face, all whilst commanding his own secret agenda behind his back.

_How long before they send you back to that cryogenic coffin?_

So...the file they had given him; it was not completely accurate. They had manipulated certain events, certain people it seemed. The paper clipping in his breast pocket was a testament to his initial suspicion regarding the man on the helicarrier; Captain Steven Rogers.

_I knew him_, the soldier realized.

They drove along, passing moody bars and boozed up civilians, frolicking in the cool night air. Yet the cold did not envelop the Winter Soldier. No...something else got a hold of him—sinister and dark like the culmination of every defeat that had befallen him, every scar that had marred him. He would never be free.

For as long as he was there...under Hydra, under Pierce, taking order after order, believing nonsense like the lost, broken man he was, he would never be unchained. Truly, the worst feeling in the world was not knowing the power of your own strength.

The Winter Soldier had made up his mind, then and there, to get out. To leave it all behind. His vengeance against Pierce would come to fulfilment...eventually. At the present however, he had to make sure he knew his bearings; knew his history.

As such, he would have to put the first wheels of his plan into motion.

The Winter Soldier looked from the corner of his eye to the man beside him. His comrade was oblivious, staring outside the window, catching the sights as they went by.

The soldier breathed in slowly then took a right turn down a quieter road. It was dark ahead, and the road became lonelier, less settling as he drove the car further down. His comrade seemed to be unaware as to the change of path, continuing to look outside absentmindedly.

When the soldier saw that they were truly alone on the dirt path, he pulled the vehicle to the side, letting the engine run.

"What gives man? Everything cool?" his comrade asked, looking straight ahead, lost in his own world.

The soldier turned to look at the man, taking his arm slightly off the wheel.

"Do you have a wife? Any kids?" he asked eerily.

"...what?" the man laughed slightly, annoyed at the question "Why?" he retorted.

"Do you have any family? A wife or kids?" the soldier repeated calmly.

"Err...no" the man replied, "I'm married to the job," he joked then laughed haughtily, completely oblivious to the underlying tension brewing gradually.

"Can we just head back to HQ, man, I'm shafted," his comrade complained, eyes still on the road, "I need a fuckin' drink...maybe a fuckin' fuck, too" the man laughed again.

The soldier simply looked at the man, a hint of satisfaction betraying an otherwise calm demeanour.

Then...

The Soldier lunged over the handbrake, swiftly elbowing the man in the jaw...

_Once..._

_Twice..._

_Hard as fuck...shattering teeth and bone..._

The man was bleeding now, heavily disoriented from the strong blows.

"What the...fuck man...what'd you do that for...shit," he sputtered in between heavy breaths, as blood dripped all over the front of his armour.

The soldier ignored his, his bionic arm holding the man in place against the seat; pressing him down. He wasn't going anywhere.

Then, the soldier reached towards his waist with his good arm, removing the gun and cocking it. The man, his comrade, had widened his eyes now, finally becoming privy to the horrific fate that would soon engulf him.

"What...Please man," he pleaded, "Don't do this man, please. Why? James...James, man, come on,"

The soldier simply looked at the man, an eerie calm evident on his face.

He raised his pistol to the man's line of sight, pressing the tip lightly against his forehead.

"Goodbye," the soldier said coldly.

* * *

Hydra

2045 hours

In an almost empty room on the 8th level of Hydra's base, a soft noise awoke Rumlow from the dream he'd drifted off into.

In front of him, was a maximized version of the GSP hologram system displaying two coloured triangles—the remaining team members who were still out in the field. Rumlow's gaze was drawn to one in particular—_a yellow one_—blinking rapidly and emanating a distinct sound. _A warning_.

Rumlow shook off the sleep, his fingers moving to a button on the dial connected to the triangle. He pressed it, opening a second holographic image—a file—that of Syd Barstow, one of the two still out; the other, being Barnes. _The Winter Soldier_.

The beeping grew louder now as the triangle blinked rapidly.

Rumlow was exhausted, an anxiety creeping over his form. He tried connecting to either of their Bluetooth headsets, but could not get through. His heart pounded heavily against his chest as he already started planning the explanation he would relay to Pierce. Rumlow could only watch in defeat as the beeping gradually faded into a continuous, monotonous sound. A flatline. The yellow triangle soon followed, slowly disappearing from the holographic display.

Only the intense hue from the _red_ triangle remained.

* * *

**Thanks for reading!**


	6. Five Point Five

A/N

****A/N:** ** I know I said I won't be able to update soon, however my exams finish on the 18th of June which is a while away, so I just thought I'd put out this short filler chapter. I've sort of rushed it a bit but its progressive I guess. Any constructive criticism is welcome since it was not a thorough job, admittedly. I'll put out a really good chapter by the 19th, thanks.

* * *

I know these aren't innocent men. Mercenaries. Outlaws. Killers for hire. But I keep hurting them after I know they're not going to tell me anything. Because they deserve it. And because I'm angry. And helpless.

- _Winter Soldier, Vol 2: Broken Arrow_

2330 hours

Saturday

The thought of vanishing...of putting the pedal to the floor and simply gunning it to nowhere had crossed his mind. He decided against the idea, however, upon looking at the GPS system connected to his wrist. His red triangle would show up—the last man left out alone from the ambush from this afternoon—and he couldn't risk it. _Not yet._

If he ran now...Pierce would send the battalion out for him. Whilst he was skilled in combat, he was also just a one man army. That was the reality. His chances would be higher if he meticulously planned his escape within the next few days. That way, he would gain the remainder of his past as well as be able to stock up on weapons and resources.

He also knew about Captain Steven Rogers now. The whole truth and nothing but. There was only the mystery left in regards to the red-haired woman—a subject he'd be able to suss out as soon as he got back to the base. The thought of being able to finally piece together his past gave him some form of satisfaction. This was however, quickly replaced by anxiety as he contemplated on the explanation he would have to relay to Rumlow and Pierce.

It was almost midnight by the time the Winter Soldier made it back to HQ. He'd had to stall at a few points, to avoid the intense spotlight of the chopper that had been hovering dangerously over the immediate vicinity. They, _the cops_, still hadn't given up, scouring the area for any possible suspicious activity following the ambush. This was D.C.—the capital; most of the cartels operated down south towards the Mexican-American border, prompting law enforcement to re-consider their strategy.

_If only they knew what the shootout was really about._

The soldier had been apprehended about a mile before entering Hydra's parameters—the security cameras they had set up along the pathway giving his position away.

After a mission report to Rumlow overseen by Pierce, they had told him to go to his quarters to get some rest. Pierce was surprisingly apathetic towards the loss of an agent's life, yet the soldier guessed that the old man's only intention was the safe recovery of the contents of the package. He looked exhausted after all and they could not have one of their best assets withdrawn from the field any time soon.

The story he had relayed to Rumlow had been meticulously planned by the soldier, his mind going over every significant event prior, to convey the best possible version—devoid of any lose ends.

He told Rumlow that his comrade, Syd, had been shot by a security guard whilst they made their escape from the retirement home. The man had bled out, suffering severe internal haemorrhaging as a result of the untreated injury. He had succumbed to his wounds not long after, embracing death in the passenger seat of the Sedan.

Of course, what really happened could not have been farther from the truth.

The Winter Soldier distinctively remembered his pull on the trigger, the gun releasing two shots at close range. He had shifted his positioning at the last minute, from the man's forehead to his gut...then to his knees. _Lethal and painful—a tough way to die._ The shot to the man's abdomen itself was enough to induce a state of shock, and he'd watched as death took over his fallen comrade's form...the man's eyes—wide in disbelief that this was the end of the line.

After doing away with his comrade, the soldier had reached towards the man's waist and nicked a rectangular shaped card; the man's security pass. Throughout the time spent under refuge in the retirement village, he had observed his companion from a distance...become aware of the man's ticks, his moods...and the security pass carelessly hanging from his waist. It had that distinctive green bar across from it, the soldier had noticed; one that allowed complete access to every facet of the Hydra base. It was then that he'd made up his mind to retrieve it...somehow.

Access to the pass would give him access to every prior hidden aspect of Hydra's activities. There was a room filled with armaments, he knew, as well as one dedicated to _Intelligence & Security_—areas that may prove helpful in his eventual break from the organization, altogether.

Right now, the soldier made his way to his room, unescorted this time. After making sure he was truly alone, he stripped off his armour followed by his now haggard attire. Reaching into the inner breast pocket of his leather jacket, he retrieved the newspaper clipping that was concealed. He examined it briefly for a second time, paying special attention to the expression covering his face and that of Captain Rogers. He was happy then, noted.

Removing the undershirt of his attire, he made his way towards the shower.

* * *

Briefing Room

1600 hours

Sunday

Alexander Pierce occupied the chair at the forefront of the table, facing the two men before him. He was the only one seated, where the other two stood at attention—their gaze resting strictly on his form. It was the day after the ambush and Pierce had wanted to congratulate the soldier on the successful extraction of the package despite the loss of one of the men.

"Your work has been a gift to mankind, soldier," the old man begun, smiling that same deceptively misleading smile, "You have shaped the century. The contents of the package from Pasadena's vault will certainly aid us tremendously in the fulfilment of our plan—one which you will obviously have a hand in executing".

He took a sip of his beverage—a late afternoon iced vodka—and continued.

"How was training this morning, James?" he questioned, much to the soldier's chagrin. The man insisted on referring to him by that name, despite the soldier's obvious distaste of it. He chose not to confront the matter, simply answering instead.

"Good," the soldier simply replied, "Something I hadn't done in a long time. It felt natural".

Pierce was referring to his previous orders of having the soldier train a few of the new applicants, earlier in the morning. The session had gone smoothly, for the most part. It had involved a group of about 6 young candidates—all bright eyed and idealistic in their demeanour—completely unaware of Hydra's true endgame.

They had obviously not been properly briefed in regards to their probable roles as Hydra agents. Just as well; Pierce had wanted to suss them out prior; separate the wheat from the chaff, single out the diamonds from the stones. Many were called, only few were chosen. The Winter Soldier had no idea what would happen to those who were let go. It did not concern him.

The candidates had potential, the soldier had noted, yet most of them lacked that killer instinct...that ruthless disposition that was required to finish the job without so much as an ounce of remorse. As such, their strikes and kicks were fallible and useless. They hesitated to cause sufficient harm...to effect pain. They were useless, the soldier noted, after swiftly tackling three candidates at once, disarming them and disabling their bodies with efficient strikes to their biological weak spots.

It wasn't however, the highly unqualified candidates that were the main issue of the training. About 40 minutes into the session, the soldier had sparred with one of the hopefuls—a young woman, about half a head below his height and with shoulder-length black hair, pulled in a bun. He had used this to his advantage, grabbing onto the knot and yanking it harshly. What happened next...well, he couldn't remember.

All the Winter Soldier felt at that time, was an aching sense of nostalgia. He had ordered for a 15 minute break, making his way to the exterior of the dojo. He later realised that, the sparring session with the woman had been very reminiscent to some of the ones he'd experienced in his earlier days, as an instructor in The Red Room. He also remembered some muted details of one student in particular—possibly a younger version of the running woman he'd come across on the bridge, that fateful day. He still couldn't place her face. Only the red of her hair caught his eyes. _He had to find out who she was._

_Soon enough, _a voice had echoed through his mind then.

"I understand there was an incident then?" Pierce abruptly questioned, eying the soldier curiously and pulling him out of his temporary trance.

"No," he replied defiantly, "It was...nothing; just my mind trying to make sense of things is all" he nodded then continued.

"I'll need the reports on past missions you offered. Every unit I was based in, every agent I worked alongside"

There it was again, Pierce noted; more like an order rather than a request.

"Certainly James," Pierce taunted prompting a clenched jaw and flared nostrils from the man before him, "You'll get it by this evening"

The Winter Soldier nodded in kind and turned around to leave, but was stopped by Pierce's voice.

"I'll need you to be ready by 8 PM this evening, by the way, James" Pierce called out, stopping the soldier in his tracks.

"Another mission?"

"Not exactly," the old man replied, taking another sip of his drink, "I just need you to oversee a deal going down tonight at The Box. Rumlow's going to be handling it mainly. You'll be there for extra support, that's all"

Rumlow nodded at the mention of the location by Pierce. He had recognized the name—a dungeon for the underhand dealings of corrupt politicians and wayward gangsters where crime was currency and indulgence was encouraged. He remembered...having taken his team, _his men_ down there a few times in the past to treat them with the pleasures of overflowing drink and uninhibited women.

He smirked slightly at the thought and stepped up from behind, turning towards the soldier.

"You'll get a duffel at around 6 pm, Barnes. In it, is a change of clothes; _civilian_. Further information will be provided via your escorts. Like Mr. Pierce said, this ain't a normal mission; just stand there and look threatening. But be ready to draw your gun if the circumstances call for such".

The soldier nodded at both Rumlow and Pierce, then made this way towards his quarters.

* * *

Elsewhere...

Nick Fury stood in the house that had served as a makeshift base following the helicarrier incident. Although the Hydra threat was still front and centre, Hill had not thought twice regarding opening her home as a temporary refuge for Shield's continued survival. They had gone underground now, working meticulously in the shadows, trying to piece together a plan that would put a permanent stop to Hydra's endgame.

Fury reached into his phone and dialled a number, pressing the end to his ear.

"Are we set?" he relayed to the person on the other line.

"We're...almost there. We should be able to lock in a connection to Hydra's HQ by tomorrow night at the very least. It's happening, Sir".

"Good. Keep me updated and pass the info on the Rogers too," replied Fury ending a call with a smirk on his face.

By tomorrow night, they would establish a line with Roj, their mole. Things were slowly becoming full circle again.

* * *

Hydra

The Winter Soldier sat on the edge of the bed in his room, the remote to the small television set in his hand. He flicked mindlessly through the channels, trying to waste away time until Pierce returned with his request. The guards—his escorts—had left a duffel bag outside of his quarters and upon opening it, he had discovered its contents to be different from what he was normally used to.

Clothes, mundane civilian attire, had replaced the traditional black undershirt and Kevlar vest that he usually donned on during missions. Then again, Pierce had specifically stated that his job for the night was atypical in nature.

His head shifted behind towards the duffel bag and the contents, now laid bare on the bed. A dark brown leather jacket and plain black pants were topped off with a pair of white sneakers. Also included were some personal grooming products—two razors, shaving gel, a small comb and a sample sized bottle of moisturizer. The soldier laughed silently at the contents. After years of personal neglect during his time in cryogenic stasis, they expected him to use moisturizing cream now?

Incredulous, he continued flipping the channels noticing a pattern. They were all pre-programmed to air particular films and tv shows. Saving me from the outside world, he wondered bitterly, settling on a black and white film.

He watched for a while as certain scenes bore hazy resemblances to his time before Hydra. His time, in the 40s where things seemed...simpler. Well, if you didn't account for the dregs of the second world war.

A distinct knocking brought him to the present and he went towards to door where he stood face to face with one of the guards.

"Sir," the man began, holding up a brown folder, "The file you asked for, as issued by Mr. Pierce. If you have any further queries, please press the green button at the side of your bed"

* * *

The soldier took the file and nodded in gratitude at the men, then made his way towards the bed.

Opening the file, he was initially hesitant at its contents. There was a fair chance that Pierce had lied to him yet again by manipulating the information within. Yet, it was his best bet at the present and he shuffled through the series of reports therein, laying any relevant ones neatly before him.

His eyes wondered briefly over the pages, sussing out mission locations, names of his comrades...carefully studying every photo attached to each name, as his mind tried to recollect any memory related to the information in front of him. He sussed over his time in Prague '76, the JFK mission, the Cuban crisis—important events that had shaped the century. _Just as Pierce had said_.

Over the years, he had been embedded within various units, a man of many faces. He expected his curiosity to be replaced by deep remorse by the things he had done, yet, the excitement of coming across the running woman served to diminish any of that underlying remorse.

He continued to scour the pages before him hoping to find out about _the running woman_. And he did...eventually. It was a brief paragraph, a simple summary outlining her role within the same unit he was posted in, as well as some rather succinct background information regarding her particular skill set. His eyed widened as he came to the realization that he was finally becoming aware of the woman of his dreams..._literally_.

Her name was Natalia Romanova; a Russian spy who had since defected from the KGB and reverted to the United States under the name, Natasha Romanoff. _Westernized to fit the bill_, the soldier noted. She had been under his command for a few of his missions—as a paired accomplice, and as part of a team.

The information detailed a few successful missions they had been on, including one in Siberia. He continued reading and found out that she had been his student once upon a time, in a training facility known as _The Red Room_.

He realized then, that it was his time with her that had caused him some grief at the training session earlier in the day. The candidate he sparred with had borne somewhat of a resemblance to his engagement with this Romanoff woman. _But why her, specifically? Why Romanoff?_ Surely he'd had other partners?

There was nothing more stated and he was left disappointed. He looked at the small profile photo of her tacked to the upper right corner of her page.

It was a simple, bust-sized photograph—its bottom-left edge already dog-eared. Agent Romanova had worn a plain black suit and her hair was short and neatly styled. Despite the faded colour, the red of her hair jumped out at him once more; her eyes were straight and hypnotic—almost tauntingly so and he thought he detected a hint of mischievous allure behind them. They were deep green, he noted, emphasized only by the stark red that framed her delicate looking face. _And her lips..._

She was beautiful—something his primal instincts could not deny. He was unsurprised then, that she had been a spy. _If she was as deadly as she was beautiful..._

He knew then, that her presence in his life was of particular significance. He only had to find out how exactly. But...why did she engage with him on that bridge, especially if they had worked together in the past? He wondered about the event, as his chest tightened slightly. She was trying to kill him, there was no question about that.

_What had changed?_

Suddenly his gaze moved towards the rest of the items in the folder—details on his missions, his kills. The remorse...that torturous guilt was starting to take shape now and he began to breathe slowly, in and out, in and out, in order to calm his nerves down.

_Don't go back; just move forward_

His examination of her looks...her experiences with him as detailed within the file, did not induce anything...no long lost memory, no distant recollection. He grew frustrated with the apparent '_pick and choose'_ mentality his mind seemed to employ in regards to his flashbacks. No worries though; he would get more information. He had the security pass now, something he was keen to use.

He carefully folded the paper with her information, making sure to not bend the photograph of Romanoff. Lifting his pillow, he placed it over the newspaper clipping of 'James Barnes' and the man known as Steven Rogers. He also retrieved the picture of the red-haired woman—_the other one...splayed on the car_—scrunching it up and chucking it into a bin nearby.

Her image was burned onto his brain anyway, should he ever feel the need to make a fantasy out of her, he thought, smirking slightly. The soldier placed the pillow on top. He failed to notice the '**X**' marked in red on the back of Agent Romanoff's picture.

* * *

Pierce sat on the chair in his office, still contemplating upon the current path of the Winter Soldier. The cryo-stasis machine was currently in repair and they had no ascertainable time-frame as to its usage back in the field once again. Still, the day was coming when the Winter Soldier would soon be re-inserted into hibernation. They just had to keep him submissive for the time being.

Pierce had relayed orders to Rumlow to keep the deal smooth; they were exchanging some information for currency, that's all. The soldier would play bodyguard—not his traditional role—but he carried menace and conjured fear; he was alright. Besides, Pierce smirked, the soldier may find himself inquisitive of a place like The Box; a place that was rife with pleasures of the flesh. He thought about how the soldier would react in such a foreign environment, chuckling slightly at his imagination. He was caught off-guard by the sudden voice behind him.

"Sir," it was Rumlow, "We have full stats of the deal going down tonight. It should go well, but we're arranging for backup, just in case"

Pierce nodded in acknowledgement and said, "Good, Rumlow. Is the package fully secured?"

Rumlow elicited a firm nod, prompting a smile from Pierce.

"Good," the old man simply said, "The game will soon change, Rumlow. Hydra will be on top, once more".

* * *

In his quarters, the soldier slowly put on the hoodie distributed by Pierce and made his way to the door. He opened it slightly, peering out to suss out his surroundings. There were no guards present and the floor seemed to be completely vacant. Carefully stepping out from the room, he locked the door and made his way to the elevator, boarding it.

He took the elevator up to the mess hall, where he made his way to the displayed food and filled up a plate. He then made his way to an empty table nearby, whilst pretending to be engrossed in the food before him. The hall was pretty empty, he noticed; a few people, possibly scientists or admin workers were scattered around the place, but there did not seem to be any agents or guards as such.

Carefully, he reached into his pocket and retrieved the security pass he had stolen from the agent—Syd—the night before. That distinct green strip down the middle was reflective and it shone briefly across his satisfied eyes. He tucked the card back into his pocket and made fast work of his meal, rising up from the table soon after.

The soldier looked around once more and saw that the few occupants in the hall did not turn up to look at him; they were caught up in their own world. As such, he made his way towards the south-left corner of the area, where he came across an outline of the building—a fire escape plan that had briefly detailed the floors and what each level housed.

His eyes narrowed as they danced over the map, stopping at two distinct points—level 8 and level 7. Level 7 was marked as '_Communications and Information'_; level 8 contained the offices of a few Hydra higher-ups, Pierce included. He noted this and made his way to the elevator.

Stepping into the elevator, the soldier breathed out heavily at the position he was currently in. He came face to face with his reflection once more, and whilst his face still looked slightly tired, his eyes were noticeably..._what was the word_, he wondered. _Gleaming?_ They were not submissive anymore. The bright blue hue was stunning, now overpowering the once muted grey. He smiled slightly in his mind, pressing the button to level 7.

When the elevator stopped at the 7th floor, the soldier made his way out onto the level. he caught side of a few Hydra workers—again, admins not guards—and ducked around the corner of the side wall to avoid them as he watched them go by, unassuming and busy with themselves.

Carefully, he peered around the area and made his way out from behind the wall, continuing to explore. The whole level was divided into sections, encased in solid glass and containing various pieces of technology. A few sections solely housed three to four lines of computers, laid out and in sleep mode. Another section contained 4 large metal drawers, presumably contained hard copies of agent and admin files, the soldier guessed. There were a few other rooms down the hallway that were dimly lit and he could not make out their contents. He decided to check out the computer room first.

The soldier made his way to the first room and removed the security pass. Hesitantly, he swiped the card across the port, waiting in anticipation for any possible success. Nothing happened. He breathed out in frustration and swiped it again but to no avail.

_Shit._

_What if he was wrong about this_, he wondered.

The soldier turned around to make sure he was alone. Then, holding the card against the cloth of his hoodie, he gave it a quick wipe.

Tentatively placing it against the head of the port, he swiped the card once more.

His eyes concentrated hard on the port and his brows furrowed. _This had to be it,_ he willed.

Nothing happened...

...for a while anyway; then, a click was heard followed by a soft beep.

Stunned, the soldier breathed in as he turned to look around once more. The lights inside had automatically illuminated and he reached his arm to click off the switch before heading into the room, the dark engulfing his form.


	7. Of the Flesh

**Graphic Adult content follows**.

*****A/N*****Sorry for taking ages with this chapter; I'd just finished exams and went out to party too much (don't recommend this, by the way). Also, erm, I was drunk when I wrote the latter half of the chapter (namely a major portion of the adult content). Apologies if I went overboard (I'll alter it if the writing doesn't fit the scope of what's allowed on here). Thanks for reading and providing feedback (you guys know who you are ).

* * *

The dark of the room provided cover for him, as he made his way to one of the computers nearby. It was almost dusk outside and soon, he would find himself in his quarters once more, readying himself for the night ahead. Rumlow had relayed information regarding the deal to be going down soon. Some place called…_The Box_? He couldn't remember but he was curious nonetheless.

Looking around once more, he took the seat before him and turned on the computer. Previously in 'sleep mode', it now beamed to life and he was met with a blue screen. The image on the screen itself, made his heart skip a beat.

_Shit._

A white text box appeared, asking for a password.

He breathed out a frustrated sigh and looked around, slightly helpless at his predicament. He should've known about the possibility of this occurring, but his mind had been so focused on the excitement of finding something new, that the possibility of failure had evaded him. The soldier bit his bottom lip in contemplation. What could he do, he wondered. He didn't exactly specialize in computer hacking; combat was more his forte.

He got up from the seat quietly and made his way to the door of the room, checking for any unwanted visitors outside. Then, he propped inside and closed the door with a light click, locking it this time. The soldier made his way to his seat and sat down, meeting the computer screen once more. Tentatively, his fingers made their way to the keyword and he began typing. It was a stupid guess, he knew, but he had to start somewhere.

Password: HYDRA

He typed out the word, fully expecting disappointment. He was right.

The box blinked twice indicating that another attempt was required. He started typing once more, about to welcome failure again, yet with a slight hint of expectation that it might work.

Password: PIERCE

He held his breath and waited. Once more, the box blinked and another attempt was granted. The soldier bit his lip in frustration and looked around the room. He was so close to finding out what he truly desired, yet fate was set in her cruel ways, it seemed. _Or maybe not._ His deep blue eyes made their way absentmindedly towards the desk in front of him, as he pondered upon his next move. They settled on the card—the security pass—that lay strewn near the keyboard. He picked it up and twirled it slightly in his hand as his mind continued to wander. The green strip across the card was holographic, and it reflected off of the light from the screen. His eyes shifted to the slight glow from the card, momentarily mesmerized by the green and silver sheen emanating from the strip. That's when he saw it.

His eyes shifted quickly to the image he had just seen on the card and he brought it up close to his line of sight. It was a standard barcode and the bottom of the card was marked in red with five numbers and two letters at the end.

00893ND

They were not placed directly below the barcode, he saw, and as such, he deduced that they were not connected to the barcode. A thought crawled its way across his mind. _Why would a security pass that has a swipe strip specifically designed to fit into a port, need a number code?_

The facility itself had no use for codes entered through a keypad; at least, none that he knew of, anyway. The whole vicinity was jacked up with open ports, electronically activated and linked to the mainframe on the ground floor. He reached up to the keyboard and peered at the numbers again.

_Then again_, he wondered, _why would they place something like that—something that meant to function as a password, on a damn security pass that could be stolen so easily_. Just like how he'd come to retrieve it.

Still, there wasn't much time left to contemplate anymore. He would have to make his way to his quarters soon; ready himself for the next mission. _If you could call it that._

He quickly typed the code into the box on the screen—his lips mouthing the numbers and letters in a whisper. Then, he clicked 'Enter'.

He failed again.

Failed to get _complete_ access.

The white box promptly disappeared and the screen turned to black. After a few moments, green lettering checkered past his eyes on-screen.

Good Evening, Mr. Sanders.

_Sanders?_

He looked at the pass once again. It was blank, he noted; no name or identification of any sort, but he guessed the name on-screen referred to the Hydra agent he'd stolen it from. _Syd._

_Syd Sanders._

The code on the pass obviously synchronized with Sanders' account on the computer.

He failed to get complete access and he now understood why. The code on the pass—it wasn't meant to work as a password. Well, not for access to anything personal or leisurely, anyway. The screen in front of him evinced a basic interface—Index, Files, Memory, Map.

It didn't seem to be able to connect to any wireless network and he figured out as much, the better privileges of access being allocated to a specific personal password. Still, this was better than nothing, he decided as he moved the cursor around to explore the domain. His eyes narrowed as he clicked on the icon titled 'Maps'.

A new interface popped up, this time displaying a more intricate blueprint of the rather simple map he'd come across in the cafeteria. He leant in closer, trying to suss out the indicators, memorize the outline. The soldier continued to stare, his eyes moving haphazardly around the screen, attempting to soak up everything he could. His eyes abruptly stopped as they landed on a distinct icon on the top-left side of the screen. When he moved his cursor to rest on it, a small white box appeared with writing:

_Do you want to print?_

He smirked then clicked as the silence was temporarily broken by the tired mechanism of a printer coming to life, nearby. He continued browsing, shuffling through the main page—the Index—where he found information on logistics and support. Apparently, a truck made its way to the base every Thursday—a general delivery truck with no affiliation to Hydra whatsoever.

It was on schedule at 0500 hours, carrying food and other replenishments. He checked the date on the computer. It was Sunday. Good, he thought, smirking.

The printer continued to work, pushing out sheet after sheet of varied information; the storage room located on level one—something he hadn't been aware about until now—held various weapons and disposables in addition to some sweet gadgets that would come in handy later on. _Like the portable GPS devices that his former crew had attached to their wrists._

His mind reverted back to the events covering the preceding days. They, _Hydra_, had retained most of his equipment including the GPS navigator, yet they weren't aware of the spare one he'd had on him—the device belonging to his former comrade, Syd—one he'd swiped off the man, just after ending his life. The locator still worked well enough to give him notice of greater D.C., and since the heartbeat it had once synchronized with, no longer existed, he was as good as invisible using it.

The soldier continued to browse. No connection to the outside world meant that his resources were drastically limited to the base he was currently set up at. Still, he took his chances. He first typed in 'Steve Rogers' into the search bar.

Nothing.

He got nothing and that frustrated him.

Then he remembered that, whatever files they were holding only relayed the mere basics; certainly not highly privatized and sensitive information that would become a liability in the wrong hands. At the end of the day, Syd Sanders—the man whose card he was currently using—had still only been a low-level agent, possibly newly recruited given his inexperience in foremost combat. As such, Pierce would've kept certain subjects restricted to only their top agents. _Captain America included._

He navigated back to the search page and typed in the woman's name—Natasha Romanoff.

This time, however, a file appeared on the screen prompting him to click on it in surprise.

It was generic in nature however; not very different from the one he'd been given by Pierce. It detailed some of the missions the woman had been part of and he recognized a few of them. All successes; all of them, with her by his side.

One thing in particular caught the soldier's eye. A brief paragraph detailed what was known as 'Project Genesis', under which The Black Widow had been matriculated into. The project had been deemed a failure, he noted, and the woman had been relegated back to her usual status as a Soviet spy, before her deflection to the States.

_The Black Widow._

He concluded that it must have been a code name, smirking slightly at its subtle implication. _The Black Widow, huh?_ A woman with her allure surely had no qualms about spinning her web of lies and deceit, using frivolous charm instead of brute force…luring every red-blooded male…every weak-willed man into her arms. _Then she'd crush them_.

He thought back to that picture of her along the edge of her file—the faded one lined with paper cracks. It was old and worn out and yet, that hadn't stopped the red of her hair from breaking through…the outline of her lips…

_Her lips_—pale and without colour; but full...like two soft pillows, parted slightly in the middle, beckoning to no one in particular. _I want you…_

The photo had been simple. She was…something else entirely.

He pressed 'Print' and stood up from his seat, making his way to the printer as the darkness engulfed him once again. Once the machine stopped, he haphazardly gathered the sheets and folded them, shoving them securely under his hoodie. Then, he made his way to the door, checking for any on-coming threats.

The area was empty for the most part. He could hear some distant chatter down the hallway—nothing up-front—and as such, he ducked out of the room and made his way silently to the elevator, eventually returning to his room. On his way however, he made a quick stop to the mess hall, picking up a role of food wrap and a small re-sealable plastic bag.

* * *

A few floors below, in the dark halls of level 2, a young technician sat at his desk staring curiously at the screen before him. He had been personally tasked by Pierce to decode a few files on the USB that Hydra had extracted in the recent past. He rubbed his tired eyes and reached for a sip of coffee, when he noticed a small blinking icon on the side of his screen, drawing his attention and confusing him simultaneously. His job—_his other job_, when he wasn't decrypting files—involved tracking and tracing, and he'd previously put out a digital beacon on one of the former recruits during the disaster following the shootout some time ago; it was for a recruit—a young gun, who had apparently been killed in action.

_Which was bizarre considering the information on the screen before him. _

He furrowed his brows and typed in a few commands, hoping it was merely a system error but the box stayed. On instinct, he rolled over his chair to the far side of the table, swiftly picking up his phone and thumbing through the contacts to Pierce. He almost touched the 'Call' button before abruptly stopping. It was dusk now and Pierce was likely on his way home from a long day. The development at hand was strange but not nearly as compelling enough to disturb the freakin' director of Hydra. He decided against it and scrolled down to a different contact, then pressed 'Call'.

"Agent Rumlow?" he asked into the phone, "I've got a new development"

"What is it, Neo?" the voice on the other end quizzed, prompting the technician to ignore the tentative nickname they'd given him.

"I just got a ping—a beacon alert," he continued, "It's bizarre though. It concerns Syd. Syd Sanders, one of the recruits killed on the day of the file extraction at Pasadena's place. He's showing up on base. Or…at least, whoever's using his security pass is, Sir".

A moment of tense silence passed.

"Give me the stats," Rumlow commanded, a raised attentiveness in his voice. How in the hell was Sanders showing up? Unless…

"Got a digital activation in Communications, lab 3, desktop A14, Sir. I got an exact trace on all activity therein. Run-time was around 28 minutes in total Sir, no known hacks, just randomized browsing. Whoever was looking missed '_I.T. for Dummies'_ that's for sure"

"Alright, send me a copy of all known activity. If it happens again, call me A-sap".

The phone clicked off and 'Neo' went back to his desk.

* * *

On his level, the Winter Soldier made his way to the bathroom area attached to his room, making sure to properly secure the door to his quarters. His stride was quick and urgent, and he crouched slightly by the toilet, carefully lifting the ceramic lid off the tank and placing it beside his feet. He made his way back to his bed and pulled out the security pass he'd hidden in his back pocket. The soldier placed the pass in the small zip-lock bag, then wrapped it thrice over in the plastic from the roll he'd swiped from the mess hall, forming a make-shift parcel. He made his way back to the bathroom area and reached into his pocket, pulling out the small roll of cello-tape that he'd "borrowed" from the computer lab earlier.

Lifting the ceramic lid, he taped the parcel onto the inside, then secured it carefully back in place. Then he made his way to the room to change for the mission ahead.

He knew they'd find out eventually. Those words on the screen—_Good evening, Mr. Sanders_—that right there, told him that every account accessed under a standard issue pass was monitored daily by Management. It was likely then, that every time he used the card, a brief note of his activities was embedded in the system. He couldn't take the risk and be caught with a dead man's card on him.

He removed his hoodie and picked up the leather jacket laying on his bed, bringing it up to his sight to examine it with curiosity. With one swift motion, he put it on and zipped it up then reached towards his pants.

* * *

Rumlow stood besides the sleek black SUV that would serve as their transport for the night ahead. It was digitally wired to convey their location at any given time, and although it looked like it belonged to a soccer mom, the reinforced bullet proof doors and the semi-automatic secured within, said otherwise. It was only him and the soldier tonight, the latter still at the base.

Rumlow adjusted one of the side mirrors of the vehicle and examined his reflection within. His face was still slightly bruised from the shootout after Pasadena's a day ago, but it worked in his favor tonight. A little _rough and tumble_ never hurt his unkind demeanor; certainly not his chances with the women passed around in that place. He'd been starved for a while now, what with the brunt of work and the solidarity it bore. Still, the importance of the deal at hand, took secondary billing to the desire for carnality that had eluded him for a while now. Flesh…soft and plush, there to be grabbed…

He curled his fingers at the thought, when a figure walking towards him caused him to look up. What he saw took him slightly by surprise.

It was the soldier—Barnes; except he wasn't a soldier nor was his disposition akin to a veteran of combat. He was…unassuming…pedestrian, Rumlow realized, as his eyes briefly scanned the figure before him, making sense of some of the finer details.

The soldier was simply a man now.

He wore a dark leather jacket which enveloped his broad shoulders, held snugly against his firm chest. Plain black pants were rounded off with a pair of casual sneakers. His face was different too, Rumlow thought, noticing a deep gash embellished above his left eyebrow from the shootout. Somehow, it served to emphasize a rugged exterior—one that off-set the clean-shaven, smooth look that he currently sported, with eyes that bore a passive gaze—a soft blue, vastly different to the penetrating, steely-eyed stare he otherwise upheld; wide and full of wonder.

_No, not wonder_, Rumlow noted. _Apprehension. Excitement_.

Tonight was different. This mission was different—an environment that would be unprecedented for the soldier. He wondered why Pierce had sent Barnes along, considering the latter's inexperience in a setting which had no real value for combat efficiency. Then he remembered how important the deal was to Pierce. If the deal went sour and shit did hit the fan tonight, Rumlow would sick the Winter Soldier upon those, unfortunate enough to get in his way.

Till then, the soldier was simply a man. _Backup_.

His dark hair was still slightly wet, Rumlow noted, and he'd made a haphazard attempt to slick it back. His hands were in his pockets and under the dim hue of the street light, he radiated a certain child-like innocence that misplaced his comfort and confused him. Combat was all he knew. This…this was far from it.

Rumlow smirked, slightly incredulous at how non-threatening the one they'd called The Winter Soldier currently looked, and for a second, he felt a pang of sympathy at the strange twist of fate that had befallen the younger man—one, who appeared physically intact by society's standards, yet who harbored an unmistakable sadness, outdone only by an undeniable wrath festering within his being.

"My Desert Eagle—the one Pierce confiscated after Pasadena. I'll need it back, Sir"

And the young man became a soldier once more.

Rumlow nodded in kind, reaching behind his own waist and pulling out the piece then handing it over to the soldier who swiftly cocked it and checked it for ammo. Then, he holstered it to his side, tucking it under the heavy cut of his jacket. He nodded at Rumlow and the latter thought he saw a glint of something strangely amiss in the soldier's eyes. They were soft no more.

* * *

The ride to The Box was a quiet one, and Rumlow did not expect any more. The older man drove whilst the soldier took shotgun, his eyes scanning the density of the dimmed down metropolis. They had been driving for a while, taking the highway that led them out of the industrial dredge and into the urban jungle. The silence—torture under different circumstances—was a welcome to Rumlow in the current scenario and it allowed him to contemplate over the coming events. He turned to the soldier.

"Listen up, Barnes", he said, "We head inside through the back entrance and take the stairs underground. Stay behind me and follow my lead. Don't talk to anyone unless spoken to; when we're inside, move around, make yourself comfortable, or just perch your ass at the bar. I'll be a few tables down sitting with our mark. Again…don't talk to anyone, not even to the women," the Rumlow instructed, eyeing the soldier who starred straight ahead, intently listening to the older man's orders. Rumlow continued.

"If a woman comes up to you, acknowledge her, say nothing else. You don't need to; they're just playthings, all of 'em. Let her do her thing. She wants to sit on you, touch you…suck you off, hell, enjoy it. But _say nothing_," Rumlow turned back to the road and took a left into a back alley, then parked along the quiet sidewalk. The door—the other door that would lead them underground—was just ahead, covered by two burly looking bouncers.

"If it were up to me, you wouldn't even be here, but the boss thinks differently. This is just an exchange, so nothing should go wrong. Don't make me think otherwise, soldier".

The younger man stayed neutral and simply nodded. Rumlow got out of the vehicle and the soldier followed but not before adjusting the gun on his waist band. The pair made their way to the door, but Rumlow stopped short, turning to the soldier.

"Oh, and, Barnes?" he started, "Don't get any bright ideas about ditching and making a run for it. You're on track and trace, kid. There's a beacon attached to that metal stick of yours. You'll be taken out before you can make it out of D.C." the older man confirmed, evincing a smirk.

_So, they __**were **__keeping tabs on him._

Rumlow didn't wait for a reply; he simply turned towards the entrance, nodding at the guards who opened the door. The two men curiously eyed the soldier, oblivious to his true self. The soldier simply returned the stare, hard and remorseless. Then he followed Rumlow down the stairs and into the unknown. _His unknown_.

_Out of the fire_, _and into the …_

What was this place exactly? The thought seemed to nag at him.

The Box beckoned.

* * *

The stairs were dimly lit, almost dark and there rested a small flickering bulb at the end of the flight. It faintly shone over a red door as the low remnants of a song emanated from within. The soldier came to stop at the bottom as Rumlow reached for the knob, turning towards the younger man as he did so. _This is it_, his gaze seemed to say, as he twisted the handle.

He was bathed in red first and not long after, the rest of his being was overwhelmed with every minute frequency thriving from within. The soldier found himself on guard almost instinctively, and he drew in a deep breath as his mind worked to separate the plethora of visual stimulation bombarding his senses, from his usual experience of combat in the field. He felt naked without his mask.

They were in The Box now, and the soldier looked behind, as one of the bouncers from above ground swiftly closed the door they came through. The place was immersed in a deep red hue, lightly dotted with white strobe lights flickering throughout the space. The low bass-line of a song—sensual but unrecognizable—radiated throughout the floor as bodies, bare and buxom, moved in a slow ode to the music.

The bar was lit up, he noted, and a few patrons had settled themselves for the night, somberly drinking away their troubles; _or celebrating_. His eyes wandered towards the tall, steel poles that were attached steadily to the ceiling, but more so upon the bodies perched on them—beautiful and lithe, giving light to a myriad of poses, both tantalizing and hypnotic.

One of the poles had two women on it, their voluptuous forms fused together as they explored each other's bodies in erotic passion, garnering thrills and whistles from the lust ridden men who surrounded their entwined forms. They were bare—only their delicate feet were covered by clear heels—and the soldier looked on curiously as the women continued to nip and suckle on each other, skin burning against exposed skin, bare breasts touching slightly as hands ran through hair and heat—his heat, ran through engorged veins—hot from the visual stimuli—dilating pupils, electrifying every nerve, every instinct, amplifying every primal urge that tore at the soldier…begging him to succumb to the most basic of his desires.

The soldier was hypnotized by a sight he wasn't used to and it was Rumlow's slight nudge that brought him back to attention as his gaze shifted from the masquerading women to the tall figure who was approaching them. It was Pierce's contact, Mason—the man who was a part of the exchange. Rumlow turned towards the soldier, motioning him towards the bar; then the older man followed Mason to one of the low-lit table at the far corner of the place. The winter soldier simply made his way to the bar, perching himself upon a seat as the bartender poured him a whiskey. One on the house, the man said, nodding towards Rumlow.

The man obviously knew Rumlow, and as such, had offered Rumlow's "friend"—the soldier—the free drink.

He picked up the glass, holding it at eye level before downing the shot in one swift motion. It hit the back of his throat, heating up his core as it burned its way through him. He wasn't used to the feeling but it wasn't completely alien—a flask of whiskey or vodka was often passed around amongst his comrades after successful missions—some semblance of a celebratory gesture before he was put on ice again.

His deep blue eyes made their way around the place once again. Rumlow was still conversing with Mason and his men and it seemed to be going as planned—the men, all sipping on liquor and having a laugh. Toward the side, were smaller rooms simply closed off by thick curtains—a few of them occupied; private parties happening therein, no doubt. The whole place was a cocktail of alcohol and sweat, topped with unadulterated desires and devious intent. His missions were straight-forward. _In. Out. Kill_.

This was something else.

The whiskey surged through his body now, warming him somewhat; calming his once stiff exterior and he started to relax. His gaze tumbled lazily across the room, searching for the two women who'd worked the pole earlier. They had finished, and were now replaced by another exotic dancer—a dark haired seductress who was just as alluring. His gaze rested on her momentarily, then switched passed her towards something—some_one_ else who'd caught his eye.

A woman was standing near the pole, but she wasn't looking at the dancer. No, she was staring straight at him; or so it seemed. Her light blonde hair was short and curled at the bottom and her dark red dress fought to overshadow the red hue of the room. She wore a pair of dark-tinted glasses despite the relative dimness of the place, and her lips were full and plush—painted to the color of wine.

Her lips were curled slightly on one side evincing a smug sort of expression—like as if she were taunting him; daring him to approach her. He continued to stare, knowing the extent of his icy blue gaze. He wasn't deterred in the least—certainly not by someone like her.

Rumlow's on-coming presence pulled him out of his stare against the mystery woman, and he got off his seat and approached his comrade. The older man simply smiled as he was joined by Mason and his crew.

"Transfer's complete, kid," Rumlow began, "The package was uploaded and wired through to Pierce. No harm, no foul. Now, we just wait for confirmation" he grinned, as he handed Mason an envelope.

"I'll start the car," the soldier replied brushing past Rumlow who stopped the younger man by his arm.

"Whoa…wait a minute, soldier. We're in no hurry right now. We still have to wait on the boss' word that the file has been uploaded onto our systems," Rumlow said, nodding at a few of the women who were starting to approach them, "We stay put for a while. Entertain yourself. Don't stray" he added, as one of the women put her arms suggestively around Rumlow whilst another tugged at his jacket towards one of the private booths. The soldier watched curiously as his comrade was led away, one of the women winking at him seductively before shutting the curtain.

He turned to approach the bar, when another woman—one of the exotic dancers from earlier—wrapped her hands around his hips from behind. Her touch startled him slightly and he turned around to meet her gaze—her charming smile gleaming against big, brown eyes. She ran her hands across his abdomen and started to massage his lower back, bringing her lips closer to his neck…her full lips nipping slightly at his collarbone. She was soft against him, and she felt good whispering sweetly into his ear, telling him how she'd seen him at the bar…that she'd liked what she'd seen; telling him how lonely she was and how his presence was the comfort she craved so.

The soldier's nostrils flared slightly, as he numbed his mind and decided to give in to his body. His eyes wandered slightly; Rumlow was gone, enjoying the spoils of a long night presumably. His deep blue eyes met her dark ones and he realized how beautiful she was, so tempting and laid bare for the taking; a gift for the work he'd once toiled over, for the blood he'd spilled on behalf of Pierce. It was too good. _She_ was too good.

The soldier smirked slightly as he let himself be taken over by her sensuality—his carnal desires taking full circle now. His own arms started to explore her body, tracing every curve, squeezing every mound of flesh. She felt tight yet soft at the same time and his mind went wild at the thought of being with her…inside her, of breaking into her…violently, aggressively, to famish his own hunger. It was selfish, he knew; the idea of using her body…of twisting and winding her to curb his own insatiable lust, but he didn't seem to care. It was almost strange in a way; the way Hydra used him, would be the same way he'd soon use this woman—this unknown, this _plaything_. He felt no remorse; only a painful stirring from below his belt that needed to be tamed right now.

He pulled the woman close and she moaned against his broad chest. He whispered hoarsely back into her ear, taunting her in kind…asking her what exactly he could give her to satisfy her cravings; prompting her eyes to evince a glint of mischief. She simply grabbed his arm and led him slowly towards one of the private booths as his own eyes came to rest hungrily on her swaying hips. Nothing about their exchange felt awkward, the soldier noted, despite not having the company of a woman in a long while. His actions were fluid—as natural as the stars in the sky—and he briefly wondered if they were remnants of his past life; of the man known as James Barnes.

The woman reached the booth and made her way inside and before he followed after her, he turned to survey the place once again. It really _was_ unlike anything he'd experienced before. His eyes almost made their way back to the booth, before stopping halfway at the figure from across the area. It was the woman in red—the same one from earlier, who had held his gaze hauntingly; except his time, she had removed her shades and for a brief moment, he thought he recognized something familiar about her. Her lips no longer curled into a slight smirk; instead, her face was vacant…expressionless. Before he could place her, the woman from the booth pulled him inside, shutting the curtain as she did.

* * *

Hydra Base

Alexander Pierce sat at his desk staring intently at the young man before him. It was the computer tech—the one, the agents jokingly referred to as 'Neo'. The kid had his eyes glued to the screen as his finger tapped mechanically over the keys. They had received the package—the file—from Rumlow a few moments prior and the young tech worked steadily to confirm its contents.

"Status update," Pierce said, eyeing the man.

The man continued to type for a while, then relayed to Pierce that the file was complete in its contents—the bargain being honored by the man known as Mason, Pierce's contact.

"Good," Pierce replied, "Give Rumlow the affirmative".

Piece stood up from his seat and made his way to the exit, leaving the technician to his own devices. Once alone, the young man quickly turned his attention back to the file on Piece's screen, double-clicking it to reveal its contents. It wasn't exactly classified beyond his own clearance level, he figured; Pierce wouldn't have left him alone if it was confidential stuff.

The digital folder opened, revealing a series of sub-folders categorized numerically. The technician did not recognize their labels, instead, he continued to click on one of them. As he did so, a series of boxes emerged on the screen, presumably from the original folder. His eyes strained to make out the contents therein, yet he was unsuccessful. A few of them were coded, he realized; most of them were in a different language—the characters vaguely recognizable as Japanese—Hiragana symbols—certainly not one he commandeered fluency in. _Of course_. No way would Pierce leave him alone with the folder. It would take hours to decode and he was only here for a few minutes more. He smiled incredulously as he attempted to close the files on-screen. Before he did so however, his eyes briefly caught a few recognizable characters—English lettering, displayed below the foreign language:

Project Genesis 2.0;

Weapon X

X-23

Widow Incarnate

Serum #PRO351 (Proteus)—Activate? Optional Y/N

The technician squinted at the last line. _Serum PRO351_.

_Serum_, he mouthed silently to himself; _what, like the Super-soldier Se…_

He had heard about the serum after the Battle of New York—when he'd first seen Captain America with his team; the Avengers. That man…Steven Rogers had been subjected to Erskine's experiment which had enabled his amazing transformation. _But…it was destroyed, he knew, when Hydra killed Erskine._

_Then how…what the hell was PRO351_, he wondered momentarily before the alarm on his cell-phone alerted him to his next shift. His time was up. Disappointedly, he closed every file and backed-up the folder onto an external hard drive. Following this, he logged off and made his way towards the exit.

Whatever they were planning…whatever trump card Pierce had in his deck, was going to change the game indefinitely. He was just a pawn on Pierce's chessboard, he realized as he walked aimlessly down the dimly lit hallway.

* * *

The Box

The sensation of her lips on his was hot and moist as his arms made their way around her form, drawing her in closer, engulfing her passionately. As soon has the woman had pulled the curtains across the booth, she had pushed him back playfully causing him to settle on one of the mattresses that lay in the middle. The small space was dim and softly toned—the only source of light emanating from the numerous candles within glass casings perched around them. It was strangely intimate, even romantic, contrary to the unabashed nature of the scene outside of the booth.

He laid on the mattress as his head rested on an embodied cushion, tilting slightly upwards towards her form. The woman straddled him firmly has her hands made their way to her barely-there outfit, fingers meddling with the buttons. She fiddled for a while trying to undo them yet her drunken state made this somewhat difficult.

Slightly frustrated, the soldier rested his metal arm on her hips whilst he reached up with his good arm, tugging onto the flimsy material then ripping the cloth in the middle, evoking a soft giggle from the woman. He roughly pulled the remnants of her top from her shoulders as his eyes roamed over her half-naked form bathed in candlelight. She was still straddling him when his arm reached up to her face, lightly caressing her soft skin—his fingers tracing the outline of her plush lips.

She smiled invitingly when he dropped his right hand to cup her full breasts, squeezing them as his thumbs traced her now erect nipples, teasing them playfully, then rubbing against them more forcefully soon drawing a soft moan from her. She shivered slightly as the cold touch of his metal arm held her in place whilst his good arm caressed her, his own body starting to embrace the heat from her warm touch. He reached up to her neck and drew her down towards him, kissing her passionately…roughly, as his hands explored her body. He was burning with lust as a tightening sensation gripped his lower half—painfully tarnishing his will to control it, to numb it…until the time was just right; then, he'd release himself within her. Until then, he played out his need to own her body, keeping his insatiable lust on a leash…allowing her to cruelly taunt him with her sexual prowess.

She obliged in kind as her hands caressed his face, tracing his chiseled jaw line and nipping softly at his collarbone as her lips felt smooth skin and left-over stubble under his musky scent. He pulled her closer as she explored his body, unzipping his leather jacket to reveal his bare, tough form underneath. He breathed out sharply as she brought her mouth to his chest, kissing and nipping at the taut skin, sucking on his nipples and slowly making her way lower, towards his belt buckle. He knew what was coming as he rested one of his hands on her head and pushed her lower, his blue eyes gleaming with mischief.

He was hard now, his manhood pressing forcefully against the seam of his pants, aching for the woman…for her lushness and the stroke of her touch. She simply smirked at his disposition as she moved her hands over his pants, squeezing and massaging his erection through the cloth, eliciting a low moan from him. She delighted in this—having him under the control of her touch, helpless almost, like a slave to her presence; _or so it seemed._

She kept massaging his hard member, nestling down towards his belt and swiftly unbuckling it. Her teeth wrapped around one end, pulling it from the loop as she tilted upwards to meet his gaze…satisfied at her command of something so trivial yet so tantalizing all the same. His eyes reflected her mischievous glint as a slight smirk made its way across his own face. She continued now, unbuttoning his pants and slowly unzipping them, then parting the seam to reveal his undergarments and more importantly, what lay directly beneath.

Her low breathing was complimented by his soft but deep moaning, as she reached for his under garment, slipping her hand beneath the elastic and wrapping herself around his swollen member—stiff and hard to the touch—caressing it sensually…making his lips part slightly as he drew in short sharp breaths. He bit his lower lip as the woman pulled out his cock from under the elastic, nipping at the base and drawing a slow lick towards the tip.

She did this a few times, slowly…sensually, looking him in the eye all the while…teasing him endlessly and eliciting a few low growls from him—a combination of both, pleasure and frustration at her apparent power over him. Finally, as she came to the tip, her lips parted as she slowly drew him, taking him completely…evoking a low gasp as his pent-up frustration was met with the first waves of pleasure…unadulterated, a sensation that made him more stiff…the size of his shaft enlarging as her pretty mouth gave it a home.

He was incredibly thick against her lips and she'd started slowly at first, still getting used to his girth. He closed his eyes as his head tilted back against the cushion, a feeling of pure ecstasy washing over his form. At this point, the woman increased her rhythm, moaning provocatively herself and running her free hand over his thighs—adding to the incredible pleasure he felt. He arched his lower back and tilted his hips upwards toward her as his hand reached down to push her further onto his shaft, his overwhelming need for stimulation—thrashing against his better judgment. Every bit of rationale was now replaced by something more primal as her full lips lapped him up whole, sucking and licking from base to tip…the warmth of her mouth almost giving him a release right there. _Almost. _

He knew what was coming and as such, he pulled her off of his shaft, gently at first then shoved her roughly onto the mattress. He was straddling _her _now, as his thick arms pinned her own delicate looking ones above her head. His still erect member brushed lightly against her inner thighs as he lowered his face close to hers, their lips almost touching, their breaths—hot and moist against each the other's skin.

The soldier looked at her momentarily, the same way he'd briefly stare down his targets before he made away with them. His gaze was intense and his icy blue eyes held her down yet the deep brown of her own doe eyed gaze seemed to soften him a bit. She was exposed now, her body writhing slightly under him, feigning discomfort whilst challenging him with her roaming eyes.

He lowered his lips to hers and kissed her passionately whilst his arm worked along her lower body, tracing the skin on her thighs, soon coming up to the warm wet space between her legs. His fingers rested briefly on the spot on her inner thighs, making soft circular motions to tease her…eventually inserting one finger, then two into her. He watched her closely as her face showed the first signs of pleasure, making her lips part slightly as she let out a low moan. Her body was stiff…completely under his control and she was overwhelmed by his movements as they increased in intensity.

Her body arched upwards as her mouth formed an 'O' and that's when he embraced her as his mouth met her lips with an open ferocity, soon running down her neck, nipping at her collarbone as his strength held her down easily. She moaned and cooed softly, enjoying his hard body against her own lithe form. His lips ravaged her body, her breasts…but…when he tilted his head upwards to briefly glance at what he'd made of her, he met something else entirely.

Her hair had turned a deep shade of red and he found himself starring into eyes the colour of emeralds. His eyes widened as he abruptly stopped in place, the bizarre image momentarily freezing him. He jerked up carelessly towards her, pinning her down by her shoulders as the mirage faded and she was the dark haired, doe eyed woman from before. He continued to hold the woman at the mattress as his mind went blank with confusion, struggling to make sense of the image he had just seen.

Breathing heavily, he looked at her splayed body underneath him, as he realized he was still holding her. Her eyes were now beaming with something he found unrecognizable and he quickly eased his grip on her form, resting his arm on the mattress instead. She raised herself up to his face trying to soothe him, but he recoiled instantly, coming to rest on the edge of the mattress—eyes lowered and brows furrowed in frustration.

"If you want to play it rough, you can be rough", the soldier heard the woman say as he felt her make her way closer to him.

"Just…get out" he stammered, uncertain at first then, "Get out! Go away…just go", a firmness gripped his voice as he stood up to make his way away from her, buckling his pants and reaching for his jacket.

"Okay…fine" came a soft, quivering reply as the dark haired woman got up, "I'll go…Jesus".

The woman dressed herself up quickly, brushing past him towards the curtain and taking extra care to avoid his gaze.

The soldier came to rest upon the edge of the mattress once more, disappointed at the sour turn of events that had befallen his night. He was more troubled however, by his brief vision from before. He recognized those deep green eyes and that shock of red in her hair.

They were unmistakable—owned only by _her_. _The Widow_.

The soldier could only lay in his thought for a short while, however; on the other side of the curtain, he heard a loud voice, recognizable in an instant. It was Rumlow.

"Soldier?" the voice called, "We just got word from the base. File's uploaded, we're good to go".

In response, the Winter Soldier made his way towards the curtain, drawing it to meet Rumlow's face. The younger man glared towards his older handler and the latter instantly knew something unsettling had occurred prior. He decided not the press the matter, motioning the soldier towards the bar instead.

"I just got a call about 10 minutes ago; Neo—our technician—confirmed the delivery. The mother's a beast to decode, but Intel will be on it in the morning".

Rumlow made his way to one of the stools, nodding towards the bartender. The latter nodded in kind, pouring two shots of whiskey—straight.

"I hope you didn't talk to anyone, Soldier", Rumlow said as he downed the shot in one swift motion.

The soldier ignored the quip, his mind still on the Widow.

"Clean up. Meet me at the car in five," Rumlow repeated. Then, he made his way towards the door, disappearing into the crowd.

The Winter Soldier reached for the small shot glass, picking it up to bring it to his line of sight. The amber coloured liquid glowed against the soft light of the bar, yet the smell it evinced was strong and corrosive. He lifted the glass to his lips as a hint of wooden flavor settled on his tongue. With one quick motion, he downed the shot allowing it to veer down his chest as it warmed him slightly. He put the glass on the bar and was about to leave when the stern voice of the bartender stopped him.

"You'll need to pay for that, Sir", the man said, looking him firmly in the eye.

"I'm here with Rumlow" came the reply.

"I know," the barman countered, "Which is what gave you the free drink earlier on. This one's on you, Sir. $4.50 a shot or you can say 'hi' to security"

Shit.

He didn't have any money on him, let alone a wallet. He looked around the area then towards the entrance. Rumlow was nowhere in sight, presumably already in the car. He sighed in frustration as he contemplated his options; still, he didn't have to think for long. A voice from behind him—husky yet feminine—startled him somewhat, as he turned to look at the figure.

"Put it on my tab, bartender"

It was a woman, he made out; or more specifically, it was the woman in red, the one from before who had stared at him so vehemently. Her eyes were once again shrouded in dark tinted glasses, so his own pair roamed around the rest of her face in curiosity. Her full, dark lips curled slightly into a smirk as she tilted her head sideways to acknowledge him.

"You should be careful in places like these", she started, directing her shadowed gaze towards him. The soldier simply look on, unfazed by her aura or her gratitude.

"You might find yourself extinct", she continued as her hand raised her own drink to her lips.

"Funny thing, coming from you, don't you think," the soldier countered back, still uncertain as to her motives, "You look like you work here", nostrils flaring, jaw tightening.

The woman simply smiled and for a second, that brief flash of familiarity came rushing to him once more. He shrugged it off and turned around to make his way towards the door. Before he left for the stairs, he turned back to look at the woman. She had gone back to looking at her drink. He hadn't bothered to thank her; she didn't owe him anything and as such, he did not feel obliged. Perhaps he found himself annoyed…even intimidated by her smugness.

Making his way up the stairs, he came to meet the cool air outside and his stride took him to the vehicle parked nearby.

* * *

Hydra Base

Rumlow removed the last of his armor as he prepared himself to call Alexander Pierce. The drive back had been silent as usual, and the soldier had made his way to his own quarters upon returning to the base.

Rumlow paced towards the cup of coffee sitting on the small table beside his bed and reached for his phone, pressing for Pierce's contact. A few rings later and he heard his boss' voice emanating through.

"Rumlow?"

"Sorry to disturb you Sir, just ringing in for confirmation of entry onto base," the agent began, "Final status on the file, Sir?"

"It's in good hands, Rumlow," Pierce relayed, "You did well tonight. It's been backed-up by one of our technicians and the Intel team is on-call for tomorrow. The wheels are spinning, Rumlow. Get ready".

Rumlow smirked, thanking his boss who surprisingly exchanged a few pleasantries in kind.

Before the agent could hang up, Pierce gave his final order for the night—one that startled Rumlow somewhat.

"I have unofficial confirmation that the cryo-stasis machine is online and ready for re-engagement," the older man began firmly, "I want you to make it official, Rumlow. Confirm it; then get back to me with a status update".

"I will, Sir" came the reply as Rumlow ended the conversation, making his way towards the window sill. _Looks like the Winter Soldier would soon be running on borrowed time_, he smirked, drawing a sip of his drink.

* * *

2330 hours

A few floors above Rumlow's quarters, on the level titled 'Communications and Information', a young man sat nervously at a computer as he fiddled with the keypad in front of him. He had set up a rogue line that could connect to an external port—one that was untraceable by on-base security. Or at least, he'd hoped.

He was alone in the dark room—most of the staff checking out for the night. Those few that remained did not usually take turns on this level and at this hour. Still, he had to be sure there was no compromise, his head tilting around frequently to check for unexpected visitors.

After he was satisfied, the man stood up from his seat and placed an 'Out of Order' sign near the keyboard of his chosen computer, so as to secure the piece for tomorrow. It was Sunday at present and tomorrow, when the sun rose and the stars ran away, would be the day when fate would dictate whether luck was his friend. Tomorrow he would finally make contact with Nick Fury.

Making his way silently towards the exit, the double agent known as Roj turned to survey the dark area one final time. _Tomorrow it would begin_, he thought.

* * *

1 A.M.

The Box

A few hundred miles away in a small room on the upper floor of The Box, a man lay on the edge of a mattress, bruised and bloodied on various areas of his body. He coughed hoarsely spilling blood over his torn up clothes whilst twisting his neck painfully to look up at the figure before him. His arms were bound behind him—the harsh coil burning through his wrists, and his head hurt from the blows he'd received not long ago, worsened somehow by the hard liqueur he'd consumed.

Before him, a figure stood, feet slightly parted and with a fully charged taser in hand.

"Where is it?" the figure demanded, advancing menacingly towards the injured man that lay below, "My contact tipped me off, told me I could get my hands on what I want—the file; you know the one. _Project Genesis_. Where is it?!"

"I…I don't…I just work for Mason," the man stammered through harsh coughs, his throat burning from the strain effected whilst speaking.

The figure simply leant down and brought the taser to the man's throat, sparking the device. His eyed widened at the blue electric sparks—the current, that would soon engulf his body if he did not speak. He gulped nervously.

"Wait…I…Mason sold it off. It's…it's gone. Hydra" the man relayed, trying to stall his gruesome fate.

The figure knelt down beside the bruised man, fingers reaching behind to retrieve a sharp knife—its blade glinting in the dim light. Twirling it mechanically, the blade was brought to the man's throat. It was pressed against the skin in a controlled manner and whilst it did terrify him, no blood was drawn. _Yet_.

"Then what do you know about the serum?" came the firm question, as the man was gripped by his collar, "The folder contained a specific file on _Project Genesis_; detailed within was the Serum- _Proteus_. Where is the prototype? You should know. You're one of Mason's inside men. Tell me, and perhaps you will walk out of here with one good eye. That's the most I can promise you".

"But I…don't know anything. The folder had all of the information and now…its gone, I swear…please. Please!" the man cried as he was dragged roughly by the collar of his shirt, further into the dimly lit room. He was shoved against the wall and with one swift motion, the sharp blade was driven into his right shoulder evoking a bloodcurdling scream from him—hoarse from his strained throat. Blood gushed from the open wound in his shoulder and the knife was pushed further in, causing him to elicit another scream.

No one would hear him; the music from below drowned out his agonizing cries.

"Hydra…Hydra has it now. The only version…the right one," the man huffed between short breaths as he felt the life from his self slowly slip away. His eyes made their way to the figure as he continued.

"You want it…the serum...why? Who are you? What...do you want…with it?"

The man got his answer as the figure came to stand before him, face meeting bloodied face. His eyes widened and his mouth parted in surprise as a gloved hand reached up to remove the dark pair of visors covering a darker pair of eyes. The man's heavy breathing quickened as he realized he would not live for much longer.

"No…you. It can't be…" he breathed as the pain from his shoulder wound engulfed his entire form. His time on this earth was almost up now.

The dim light had made it difficult for him to properly decipher the identity of the figure; yet now, in the throes of pain, death had wrapped her arms around him pushing him towards the afterlife. His vision became vivid as he tried to make sense of the scene preceding his death—eyes fluttering at the figure before him…and the golden flecks of hair bathed in the dull amber of the light.

The blonde wig had fooled him, and the deep red dress had seduced him—two things he had come to understand far too late; yet the now exposed pair of emerald eyes, burned into his own terrified ones as a damning realization dawned upon him

"NO…not you. Not you" he quivered, trying desperately to dislodge the knife that had pinned his shoulder to the wooden wall.

"Yes me," came the succinct reply as an arm was raised, electrified taser in hand.

"_Vdova_…Natalia…Why?!" he asked with the last of his breath.

"I want what is mine". The voice was low and harsh.

And soon, the darkness came.


	8. Off The Grid Part 1

**A/N: Hey guys, very sorry for taking SO long with this update. I was a little unwell for a while (yeah, I'm going down *that* route, lol), plus I had other important things all happening at once.**

**Secondly—this was supposed to be one chapter, but it was way too much (more than 13,000 words I think), so I chopped it up and edited it. This update basically "bridges the gap" b/w the Winter Soldier and Natasha. It also explores their background somewhat.**

**Lastly—I really hope this is up to standard. There were a lot of things that I'd (foolishly) set up in the previous chapters, so I had to tie them all up so as to not have any plot holes. It took me aaaages trying to figure out a way, and you'll see that I've created a web of connections almost. I hope this doesn't feel too over-whelming. The end (of the second part) is worth it, I promise!**

**Ok, on with it~~**

* * *

Natasha leant down towards the slain, lifeless body of the man who had now hsuccumbed to his wounds. Void of expression, she reached towards the knife protruding from his shoulders. Holding it firmly, she yanked the blade out and wiped the blood against his clothing before sheathing it at her waist. Grabbing the body by the shoulders, she pulled the man towards the small inner bathroom connected to the room and rested his head against the sink.

Following this, she made her way to the small mirror mounted on one of the walls of the room, reaching towards her wig and framing it against her face. Natasha then reached down towards the mattress beside the mirror, carefully surveying a few of the items she had laid out prior—a cell phone, a wallet, a mini-disk and a pistol—all belonging to the man who lay dead but a few metres away. Hurriedly, she placed the items in her small bag and gave a final adjustment to her dress. Then she made her way downstairs.

Making her way past the patrons, she reached the door and soon made her way upstairs—the debauchery and madness of the events prior—still sitting with her. At the top of the stairs, she nodded slightly to one of the guards then entered the night.

The events that had led the Black Widow to The Box were of a remarkable coincidence, really. Her decision to diverge from Shield had almost been cemented upon receiving that package after turning down Fury's plan to intercept Hydra. The favour that she had called was reciprocated by none other than her old comrade and friend, Clint Barton.

Even before conveying her decision to leave Shield behind, she had begun sussing out old contacts, previous clients...anything to enable her to jump ship as quickly and painlessly as possible. She was a spy after all; she was a survivor more than anything, however.

Barton had pulled a favour for her, connecting her to one of her former clients—an Argentinean drug lord—Sosa. After she had completed her main task, the Widow had begun her usual foray into the crowd, charming her way into hearts-drunk with liquor and lust. It was then, that she'd seen a familiar from her past—Mason—the man dubiously tied to Project Genesis—the experiment that had chewed her up once upon a time.

One thing led to another, and the Widow had found herself privy to the rumours of a re-engineered serum. One that had piqued her interest greatly;

It had made her think back to the experiment they, the KGB, had conducted on her.

It had made her voracious...hungry for a second chance...

A girl couldn't resist sometimes...

* * *

Hay Street Apartment Complex

Monday

0100 hours

Natasha made her way up the elevator and into her home, taking care to maintain the silence that had enveloped her surroundings. Most of the residents were likely asleep at the current hour, completely oblivious to the happening of one of their neighbours. She intended to keep it that way.

The mission had been straight-forward. Even the surprise of the serum was not far-fetched.

The only thing that marred the normalcy of the night, was seeing _him_.

The Winter Soldier; the man she'd known as 'James' once.

He'd looked right at her, holding her gaze for what felt like ages, staring her down almost. And the way he'd spoken to her...

The wig and glasses had turned her into a new person. The wipes they'd administered on him had likely dissolved the memory of what she'd done to him once. Yet the way he'd reacted to her, hostile and cold almost...

Like meeting someone for the first time, and taking an instant dislike to them. Being influenced by your sub-conscious, almost...

Haphazardly taking off her heels, she made her way to the couch as her feet hurt slightly under the pent up strain. She did not bother for the bedroom. The mattress was likely cold and hard. Instead, she slumped on the couch, her red dress still on her figure albeit unzipped to make for a more comfortable disposition. Resting her head against the cushion, her mind poured into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Hydra

Early Dawn

The Winter Soldier lay on his bed, eyes dotting absently over the ceiling as he let himself be immersed in thoughts spanning the recent past. His mission, his purpose for existence following the hellicarrier incident, had undoubtedly changed. He had gone from being a controlled weapon to possessing an uncontrollable mind.

His break from being subjected to the mind wipes and the long periods in stasis, had unleashed a barrage of past memoirs—some which left him stiff and sweaty; others which gave rise to a curiosity he could not numb—the foremost, involving the running woman with the red hair. The Black Widow. The one he'd briefly imagined as he'd lost himself within the dark haired beauty, not a few hours ago. Yet it wasn't his imagination, he knew. It was his subconscious using the copy/paste function...encouraging his mind to fill in the gaps.

The closeness of her appearance had led him to speculate upon the specifics of their relationship. Their _Off-the-Field_ relationship. _What had she been to him_, he wondered. _What had he been to her, for that matter._

Rising up from the mattress, he changed his gear to the usual attire provided by Hydra, then made his way to the sink area. Carefully lifting the ceramic lid of the tank, he lowered his gaze to check whether the package he had taped earlier, was still in place. Through the space, he could make out a faint outline of the plastic in place. _Good_, he thought, lowering the lid and making his way to the edge of the bed.

It was completely dark outside and he was starting to feel the strain of sleep deprivation. He still had a few hours until the light of day hit the widow of his room and as such, he decided to sleep it off.

In a few hours, he would start with the first of his plans—gathering intel and resources that would undoubtedly aid in his quest for emancipation from Hydra.

He lay his head on the plush pillow that sat against the bed-rest. His eyes soon closed solemnly, as he drifted off into a deep sleep.

* * *

Hay Street Apartment Complex

Morning

An overwhelming, yet pleasant smell wafted through the air as boiling hot water met dark brown powder. A dollop of white eased the fragrance somewhat and gave the drink a warm beige hue. Two spoons of brown sugar gave sweetness; made the taste slightly more bearable.

Natasha Rominoff hated black coffee. It bore too much of a remembrance to her training days under the Soviet government—week long exercises that saw the candidates endure military style engagement in the field—simulated yet strenuous. Sleepless nights were the norm, further worsened by the onset of dehydration and the continued sustenance on sub-par meals. Then there was the coffee—black, granulated and sealed in small packets. Eaten directly, not drunk as the thick powder combined with saliva made it chokingly tiresome to consume. No water...and bitter as hell.

Her training stayed. Her taste for black coffee did not.

Grabbing the mug, she made her way towards her laptop on a small table in her room. The mini-disk was already inserted into the drive, and after checking for trackers and other malware, she had begun backing up the contents onto an external storage device.

She took a sip of her drink, the deep taste lingering on her lips. Narrowing her eyes thoughtfully, she started investigating.

The short time digging around had not led to much initial progress; just a few additional contact details of various corporations and research facilities, followed by a file labelled 'Case Notes'. Unconvincingly, she clicked on the icon as she reached for another sip.

Doing so, led to a series of sub-folders, 19 of them, lined numerically along the screen. She clicked on the first one and came face-to-face with a document apparently detailing the Alpha stages of bio-genetic manipulation.

Her eyes hastily scanned the words evidenced, and she realised she was currently reading the research notes attributed to _Project Genesis 2.0_. Eyes widening at the revelation, she continued scanning every file, slowing down abruptly at Number 15.

There it was, she saw.

_Natalia Alianovna Romanova. _

Her name, in bold black print was followed by her date of birth and date of matriculation into the program.

_Test subject K3._

She began to remember now, as dark memories—better sealed off from the outside world—started to surface. She closed her eyes momentarily, letting her past embrace her.

Natasha Rominoff had been the third subject under the KGB-funded program; chosen, following her impressive stint as The Black Widow. Her superiors had been impressed by her vigilance and form, deeming her suitable enough to be the newest subject—the latest recipient of a re-engineered version of the Super-Soldier Serum. _Proteus (PRO351)._

It would significantly alter her abilities, they had assured her. Increase her perception and critical thinking skills ten-fold; allow for peak mental and physical performance. Heightened agility, endurance, memory recall and strategic play.

It would also subdue her emotions—numb her conscience and further refine her as a weapon.

The experiment had failed on Natasha.

The serum was an altered strain of the one given to Steven Rogers; it was not pure and had failed to compliment her genetic blueprint at the time.

They had sent her packing, back to her role as The Black Widow.

_Outcome: Deficient._

Natasha remembered seeing that word marked across her file. _Deficient_. It had burned her ego, made her angry. It had stayed with her throughout her time under the Soviet reign—a constant reminder of the incompetency she felt burdened under. She could not let go. Her training thus far—from being honourably selected as the primary _Chyornaya Vdova—_to countless field-missions, had made her arrogant. She wanted the serum. _She deserved it. At the very least, another try._

It would take her to new heights, she knew. What is a mere assassin, in a world of _Super_-heroes?

Her plan to retrieve it for a self-imposed test, coincided tremendously well with her on-coming planned deflection from the KGB.

Back then, Fury's offer to join Shield—smoothly conveyed through one Clint Barton—was the break she'd been looking for. _Longing for_. Still, she needed the serum. _To contain her arrogance_? _To supplement her desire for greatness...for power_? She did not know. She hadn't decided.

She didn't care.

Natasha Romanoff almost had the serum in her possession, before her final act of deflection. Well, almost...if it hadn't been for _him,_ standing in her way.

She breathed out gradually, as a slight tension started to grip her. Her fingers were clenched tight around the coffee mug, she noticed. Anymore, and she would've shattered it.

Closing the lid of her laptop, she got up from her seat then made her way to the kitchen.

Natasha reached up to open one of the wooden cabinets, clutching a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Twisting the lid, she poured a small amount into her coffee, stirring the contents into a mixture. The wooden flavour of the whiskey, combined with the now mellowed-out fragrance of the coffee, evinced a distinct smell—one that briefly took Natasha to a different time.

She was reminded of one of her first stints as the Black Widow—a team based mission. It had been successful and as such, her comrades had passed around a flask of cheap liquor. She had been 20, maybe 21—a woman trained to the highest degree in combat, yet a girl robbed of her most formative years.

She had stood reservedly in the corner, half glancing at the men across the room; her comrades. They were seasoned and rough and she'd had no desire to mingle with them. As such, she had turned her back on them, gripping her plastic coffee cup and savouring the drink.

It was only the slight tap on her shoulders, that had caused her to turn around, where she'd found herself meeting deep blue eyes, intense with expectation.

She had immediately recognized him—the one who had made her the Black Widow; her teacher, her instructor in The Red Room. He spoke in Russian, raising the silver flask, the men had passed around prior.

_Virgin_?, he'd asked, raising his eyebrows slightly whilst his eyes evinced somewhat of a mischievous glint. The word had caught her off-guard, but only momentarily. A hint of blush probably showed on her face, yet her expression hardened when she realised he had asked about her coffee. She'd heard a few of the men chuckling in the distance.

"_Vy skazat' mne_,".

You tell me, Natasha had replied huskily, her eyes steadily holding his own pair. Now it was he who had faltered slightly under her ambiguous implication. She had studied his face wondering if it bore a hint of interest, yet silently satisfied at her own confidence; then, she'd raised her cup at him, drawing a slight smirk from the man they'd called the Winter Soldier.

_The toughest soldier._

_To numb the pain_, he had said whilst pouring the liquor into her once-pure coffee. Words offered, seemingly to himself just as much as to her.

Taking a swig straight from the flask, he had maintained eye contact with her as his mouth slightly twitched from the burn of the drink. Then, without another word, he had turned around to make his way to the men.

The Black Widow had found herself enamoured by the metal of his arm but more so by the man who so vehemently commanded its lethality.

The liquor wasn't the only thing he had poured into her back then.

At present, Natasha glanced back down at the mug on her kitchen counter, raising the concoction to her lips and taking a long sip. The heat of the drink engulfed her, numbing any prior effect of the caffeine. She suddenly became oblivious to the pin-drop silence in the apartment as the drink tarnished her senses. Retrieving her cell phone from her pocket, she scrolled down the contacts list to a familiar name. Then, she pressed 'Call', as she downed the last of the drink.

* * *

Hydra base

Monday

0855 hours

On the level of the base marked 'Communications', a young blond-haired recruit made his way towards one of the quieter computer labs down the hallway. He entered the area after securing the door and placing a sign on the outside that read "I.T. Maintenance in Progress".

The room was dim, the blinds still shut from the night before. He let them be as he perched himself against one of the desktop units at the corner of the room. Starting the unit, he waited for the system to load whilst tipping his head slightly above the computer monitor before him. The day was young and as such, no one had bothered to make use of the lab. The farther location meant that, most of the units in the 2 preceding labs would get filled before anyone set foot in this room. _Good_, he thought. _That was the plan_.

His eyes briefly halted at one of the monitors, three rows down. It seemed to have been in use as its usual image had reverted to a screen-saver. Someone had probably neglected to turn off the monitor after use last night, he deduced.

The screen before him lit up and he entered his password, logging into the system. Attaching a USB device—one of his own—he activated a file on the stick, prompting a connection to an external port_._

Typing a few commands into the system, he waited for the line to be picked up on the other side.

It was almost 9 AM on the Monday morning that the double agent Roj had planned to connect to Fury's line, less than two weeks prior.

He had re-scheduled his appointments to allow for a 15 minute stall, wherein the young man had planned to tip off his former boss to the whereabouts of Hydra's current location.

Roj tapped hastily at the wooden desk, biting his lower lip in anticipation of the events that lay ahead. Ordinarily, the techs at Hydra wouldn't be able to spot the connection unless they were specifically looking for one as such. Still, the possibility was strong—one that would easily track its source back to his account. _They'd find their rat_.

He sighed as he contemplated his fate.

Looking upon the screen, a small box appeared relaying to Roj that the connection had timed out. Frustrated he tried again, then a third time, as he waited in the silence of the room, occasionally turning towards the door to make sure it was secured.

Roj got lucky on the third try.

The system made a soft blink, then prompted a small black text box on the screen before him.

The cursor appeared to be blinking.

Good, it was connected. Someone on the other end was probably typing something.

Roj waited in silence, gaze fixated on the text box.

His eyes widened when he saw the words, or what appeared to be such.

"_Is Wonderland really a wonder..."_

Roj recognized it instantly. It was a prompt code—something specific to Shield in order to identify their own.

A smile played across his face as he reached up to reply.

"..._when you have nowhere to land_?"

He waited in anticipation as more words effected on-screen.

"Confirm status"

"Status—AWOL", Roj typed back.

"Confirm identification by voice recognition"

Hesitantly, the agent connected his wireless headset to the out-going stream, checking out his surroundings once again. Upon connection, another black box popped up, this time displaying an audio line to measure frequency.

Pin-drop silence greeted him as he looked around the room. Apart from the distant screensaver operating mindlessly on its own devices, he was the only sentience in the room at present.

Roj quickly got up from his seat and made his way to the door, opening it to check out the exterior of the place. It seemed quiet but he'd been wrong in the past. He waited briefly for any oncoming sound, closing and securing the door again when he was satisfied. Making his way quickly to the desk, he adjusted his headset and slightly tapped the mic to test it. Then he spoke softly.

"_Shield recruit Roj, tracker one, one, five, two, responding for an affirmative"_

Roj waited as his voice was conveyed over waves of static.

New text began to appear on-screen.

"_Responding in the affirmative, Roj. __What is your exact location_?"

The double agent typed out a series of co-ordinates, followed by the words "more or less". He was not completely certain, but sure enough to validate a rescue effort.

"Any other friendlies?"

"Negative", Roj replied, then stopped.

"Wait," he called softly into the mic, turning back towards the secured door in worry.

"We have Barnes—the Winter soldier. The Weapon. He's out of stasis at the moment. A little disengaged at times but improving considerably. You might want to relay that to Rogers".

"_Accounted for", _the text came up_. "Search and Rescue is underway. Any potential obstacles?"_

"They may know about the connection. I may not have much time. Sourcing it to my account won't take long so you guys better hurry up".

"_Roger that. Approximate time til rescue is 46 hours minimum"_

Roj sighed. That gave him a disadvantage of around 2 days.

"Another thing," Roj piped up, partly whispering, "Barnes is likely to be put back on ice very soon. Word is, the machine is almost at full functioning capacity. If Rogers wants to get to him before they do, it'll have to be _soon. _I can't get you a cell phone or remote line—all Hydra issued devices are tracked and traced. I can, however, re-wire the emergency beacon in my room to go off in close to 46 hours. It will pinpoint my exact physical location. Rolling out_"._

"_Roger that. 46 hours, Roj. Around 0700 hours on Wednesday is your target time. Out."_

The line cut dead and Roj scrambled to manually back track his steps out of his account. Tugging on the USB, he pocketed it and logged out of the desktop, staring absentmindedly into space as the screen went black. Once again, the room was bathed in a dim aura from the closed off blinds.

The young man sat in his seat for a while as worry weighed down upon his being. He lay in silence for a few minutes still shocked by the turn of events, when the screensaver on the unit a few rows down began to distract him. Slightly annoyed, he made his way towards the abandoned desktop, moving the cursor.

The screensaver vanished and the page reverted to its original condition. Roj almost logged out, when the contents of the page made him stop. His gaze danced over the sections on the screen and his eyes made their way to the top-left-hand corner.

Roj's heart pounded as he moved the cursor to the latest date and time of login. His mouth parted in shock...and fear, upon reading the text.

_8:30 AM, Monday, July 6__th__, 2014 _

Roj continued to stare at the text, too stunned to do anything. Its implication slowly dawned on him. He wasn't alone, he realised. He _hadn't been_ alone. All through the call...during the connection to Shield...something..._someone_, had been in the room with him. _They had come in earlier_, he realised, somehow evading his gaze in the process.

The room had been dim, and in his anxiety at establishing the connection, he had been careless in thoroughly examining his surroundings.

Slowly, he backed away from the desktop, his mind still in a state of shock. His hands reached for the pistol strapped to the back of his waist—his fingers finding nothing, as he remembered he'd left it on the desk in his quarters. Cursing under his breath, he turned around to dart at the door.

He did not go far however. Roj's eyes evinced horror, as the cold touch of metal met the warm skin of his mouth. He felt himself being dragged into the darker part of the room, as he struggled but in vain to free himself from the overwhelming grip of his attacker. The feeling was one, akin to that of someone drowning; struggling in vain to gasp for air, hurling arms and kicking legs to no avail. A painful way to die.

* * *

When Roj regained consciousness, he found himself resting against one of the wooden stalls in the Men's Room. It appeared to be on the same level as one of the computer labs he had just used. The door to the area appeared to be locked; or at least, he'd hoped. His wrists were bound by something sticky—duct tape, he deduced, and he tilted his gaze upwards to meet the figure staring nonchalantly at his slightly bruised disposition.

"If you're going to kill me, do it already," Roj said through gritted teeth, a firmness gripping his tone.

His eyes roamed over the seasoned metal of the man's left limb, hypnotized by the intricacy of the mechanism yet fearful of its capabilities. The figure—the Winter Soldier—simply narrowed a pair of steely blues, burning a hole in Roj's apparent display of bravado. In his right hand, he held his trademark army knife, blade twirling mechanically...hypnotically, like it was an extension of his form. Roj starred at the knife, wondering if its blade would soon be covered in his blood.

"You were speaking to someone in the lab...not Hydra. Who was it?" the soldier questioned.

"What's it to you?" Roj replied, "I'm a traitor anyway. So kill me right now. Or take me to Pierce, whichever is the easier option" he spat tauntingly.

The soldier lunged forward, gripping the Blond man by the collar as his metal forearm pressed upon the latter's larynx. Roj began to choke, his eyes bulging horrifically at the former. He struggled for a while...then coughed in-between words. His facade had blown.

"Who were you speaking to," the Winter Soldier questioned again, holding Roj in place against the stall. The injured man lay in silence for a while and the soldier tightened his grip momentarily to prompt a reply.

"Sh...Shield, B...Barnes," Roj began in between gasps for air, "It was...Shield".

A look of confusion briefly showed itself on the soldier's face, as Roj's next line confirmed his suspicions.

"I'm...I'm not exactly Hydra," Roj relayed, an incredulous chuckle indicating his disbelief at the strange turn of events, "I...its a long story".

"I've got time," the soldier pressed on, this time, slightly lightening up on his grip. He let the Blond man rest firmly against the stall once more, as he stood up and gazed at the man expectantly. The knife was still in his hand.

Roj drew in a few breaths and stabilized himself. Looking through furrowed brows at the Winter Soldier, he began to speak.

"About two weeks ago, I integrated myself within a Hydra unit. I thought I could...the plan...the plan was to alert Shield to Pierce's location. Then I found out about your ass," Roj spat, the bruising on his face starting to hurt now. He continued.

"I...I managed to secure a line to Shield. A one-time thing. They're coming, Barnes. 46 hours soldier. Better pick a side".

"I don't have to," the soldier replied crouching down to meet Roj's gaze. "You're going to help me jump ship".

"Wh...What the hell makes you think that?" Roj was now delirious as the burden of an impending death bore down on him. He was tired and sweaty—a few salty drops making their way down his forehead and into his eyes...stinging them.

"You're one of them," he continued, "You're...you're Hydra"

"No" came the harsh reply, hoarse and threatening "Not anymore. I'm on my own now".

Roj simply looked on, a hint of fear starting to show in his form.

"You're going to help me," the soldier repeated gazing sharply into the man's eyes, "You're going to help me...because you want to live".

* * *

Hydra base

Soldier's Quarters

Monday, 1000 hours

Roj sat quietly on the edge of the soldier's bed, rubbing his bruised wrists. The shock of the soldier's strength still embraced him and he grudgingly admitted relief at his position as an ally of the man, and not an enemy. _Yet_.

Under the soldier's menacing influence, Roj had spilled his guts out, relaying the hazy plan to be executed by Shield in the near future. After the makeshift interrogation, the duo had formed a temporary truce owing to their common goal of breaking prison. Roj knew that the soldier would've questioned his future at some point; contemplated upon the time he had left before they put him back into stasis. The man seemed weary of his fate and had decided to fight back, Roj concluded.

The soldier simply listened, comparing the plan with his own gathered intel thus far. Going along with Roj would mean a faster way to get off the grid, than his original plan to ambush the delivery truck on Thursday. However, it also bore potentially dire consequences.

If Shield planned to rescue Roj, they'd have to be stealthy about it or risk casualties. Then there was the issue of Shield itself. He'd found out from Roj, that Steve Rogers, the man who'd claimed to be his friend once upon a time, was affiliated with the organization.

"I heard you mention something about re-wiring the beacon in your room?" he asked, looking expectantly at Roj.

"Yeah...say, you got some aspirin? My neck is killing me here; you wrung it real good"

"I had to make sure," came the reply as a First-Aid kit was flung gently towards him.

"Beside your desk, go twelve fingers to your left. Can you feel it? Under the carpet?" Roj asked, as he swallowed two pills.

The soldier took out his knife and cut the carpet at the spot, reaching down to lift up the thick material. Roj was right. Underneath was a small black box with one bulb set to red.

"It's mainly for emergencies," Roj said, "When there's a security breach, the guards on the first level activate a key that connects to any corresponding signal in the building. It only works for the boxes in each room. If an agent doesn't have a personal tracker but is shit outta luck or a sitting duck, they can try making it to any room on any level. If they succeed, they'd only have to flip the switch on one of those babies" he continued, pointing at the black box.

"Think of it as...a radar of sorts. If you're in trouble and need them to track your sitting position, just flip the switch," Roj smiled sarcastically, knowing it was easier said than done.

"So...you can re-wire one of these things?"

"I can try..." Roj replied, a hint of uncertainty tainting his voice, "I can erase my room from the mainframe, then disconnect the box and set up an independent signal. It'll probably go for about 2 mins before it dies out completely".

Roj continued.

"Of course, they may find out, but I doubt that. The guards—they've grown slack. They don't check the mainframe like they used to anymore"

"What if Hydra see the signal as well?" the soldier enquired, "That's a possibility right?"

"Well then, my friend, we're shit outta luck" Roj replied then laughed incredulously.

The soldier looked at Roj, as the man reached down to calm his sore wrists.

"Put ice on that. It'll numb the swelling and ease the pain," the soldier offered, making his way to the bathroom.

He was about to reach under the lid of the tank, when he stopped with uncertainty. Ordinarily, his plan was to alert Roj to his possession of the security pass, but he decided against it at the last moment. The soldier turned around and went back towards Roj.

"Here's what's going to happen, Roj," he began, "Re-wire the box if you can, but do it tomorrow. That way, there's less of a chance of being pinged right away, on Hydra's radar. I'll also need some assistance with my arm, but that comes later".

Roj nodded at the soldier then got up from his position on the bed. Before he left, he was handed a small piece of paper with writing on it. _A list._

"Beretta 92 FS, SIG Sauer P...what is this?" Roj demanded as he continued to scan the list, silently mouthing its contents almost in disbelief.

"Tools. We're gonna need as much as we can get. You're in a better position to retrieve them than I am. They think you're one of them. They won't ask many questions. Me? They don't know what to do with me. If I go, it'll raise a red flag" was the firm reply.

"What...they're not just going to let me walk in 'Storage' and check out a bunch of pistols and assault rifles!"

"Then make something up," the soldier growled, his voice—evincing a low, menacing tone as he stepped closer to Roj, unnerving the man with a harsh stare "You've done it well so far...think of something again".

"I...I can try..." came the shaky reply "A few of these...pistols, I can get them, I think...the HK416...the assault rifle, I'm not sure about that one, but I can try".

"Good," the soldier replied, as he made his way to the door.

Before Roj left, the soldier grabbed the younger man by the collar and pressed him harshly against the wall.

"You know my specialty don't you? If you're lying...if you decide to get cold feet and mess this up, I won't think twice about killing you. Don't forget that".

Cold blue eyes bore into passive green ones, as the Winter Solider made his point clear. Roj nodded genuinely then exited the room, making his way to the elevator.

* * *

Hill Residence

Monday

Evening

Natasha found herself staring yet again, at one of Hill's many picture frames covering the pastel coloured walls of her small home. This time, it was of Hill—an early 20s version—in a graduation gown, wide eyed and evincing a toothy smile. Natasha smirked slightly at the younger, less jaded Hill. _Change and time,_ she thought, making her way into the lounge area.

She was back in the position she'd been in, a few days ago.

Natasha had made the call back to Shield in an attempt to re-build burned bridges. They had questioned her motives at first. Fury had imposed his suspicions unabashedly upon her, questioning her change of mind.

The Black Widow had maintained her collected demeanour, conveying a genuine desire to help a friend in need. This was the truth, although the path leading to it was one of ...

Seeing Barnes at The Box had affected her state of mind. She had evoked her neutrality and maintained an unhinged sense of confidence, upon facing him for the first time in a long while. Yet, it was her frazzled state *after*, that she started to worry about.

From the shadows, she had borne witness to his isolated, even pathetic disposition...the weird way he carried himself in a civilian environment. He had looked different in his new attire, handsome even, and he walked with an air of nonchalance that had fooled everyone else in that place; _not her_.

His position under Hydra had obviously changed. His struggle to pace himself within the modernity of the new world, shone in flashes across his otherwise featureless face. The way his eyes would wander around the place, inquisitive and curious, upholding an almost child-like affinity. Then, he'd grow self-conscious and revert to a cold, unfazed state. A _don't fuck with me, I'll return the favour_ type thing. It had worked on everyone else. Not her.

Natasha wished she could chalk it up to simple pity...perhaps remorse for what she'd done to him all those years ago. It was more complex, however.

Her betrayal had left him wounded, physically and emotionally; but she was young then...eager to entertain her potential. As such, she had not let her cold, calculated actions be undermined by the emotion she undeniably felt. It did not bother her then.

In the grand arena of life, _he_ meant nothing...his presence was moot, expendable. He was her teacher once, and he'd done his job...fantastically so in fact. _Time to move on._

Yet, the human conscience is a fickle thing—you can evade it for years, then one night, you may suddenly find yourself being crushed by the brunt of your sins.

She had tried to convince herself of her ability to let go; yet, as of late, disillusionment had begun to wear her down. Her state of mind had altered significantly after the Battle of New York and the hellicarrier incident. Her time with the other Avengers...her time spent with Captain America...the way Steve put his trust in her, unabashedly and where he had no reason to. It had surprised her...and _softened_ her somewhat.

Perhaps it was in fact, pity. Similar to the way Barton had looked her in the eye once...lowered his weapon. The way Barton had tipped the scales in her favour..._saved her_. She couldn't put her finger on it and it frustrated her indefinitely.

She'd disliked the idea of re-joining shield, but here she was.

The possibility of Barnes remembering her...remembering what she'd done to him was very real. It worried her to think of his retaliation. Still, he may not remember at all. The machine would've wiped his memories of her, no doubt.

Natasha tried to convince herself that it was, in fact pity; perhaps even remorse for her actions in the past. Certainly nothing else...like the slight pang of guilt she'd felt when she saw him last night. Or the history they had once shared—a professional relationship, eclipsed wholly by an intimate one...passionate and all-consuming. Certainly not..._right_?

"We got confirmation on Roj's status. As of this minute, we have a little less than 40 hours til we move in"

Fury spoke this time, as Natasha, Steve, Hill and a few other Shield agents listened attentively.

"The base holding Roj appears to be in an industrial lot, South-west at about 20 miles from the nearest landmark—the Congressional Bank. Satellite imagery reveals a mid-sized structure, possibly 10 levels in total, surrounded by a simple fence. No sign of guards yet, but I'm willing to bet my good eye, there's someone paying attention to who goes in and out" Fury continued.

"What's the status on Roj," Natasha questioned.

"Mark is alive and well, although we have to reach him fast. The line he used to fish us in with, may be compromised," Fury replied, then turned towards Steve, "We got more...news. Steve's former military comrade...and friend, James 'Bucky' Barnes, is believed to be alive and currently kept within the facility. Status of his stability or mental condition is unknown at this stage"

"I thought Roj was our mission," one of the other agents quipped up, matter-of-factly.

"He is," Steve replied this time, turning to meet the agent, "We figured we could kill two birds with one stone. We got word from Roj that he...Bucky...doesn't have long before they re-engage him in cryo-stasis. I'm not leaving him again"

"He's right," Fury countered, "We have a chance to save both. Our main team goes for Roj, who has agreed to set up a beacon of sorts. We follow that line of breadcrumbs to his sitting position. Steve and Natasha will be going after Barnes".

Natasha's heart skipped a beat as she heard Fury's last line. Fury continued.

"Main team—Vazquez, Hudson, O'Reilly and Shepherd—I want you all to leave at approximately 0500 hours tomorrow, Tuesday morning. Set up a surveillance van near our target. Keep it incognito, team. Reign in any updates," Fury ordered, "We use stealth over fire to get to Roj. Once our victim is in custody, we get the hell out of there. Rogers and Rominoff are assigned to extract Barnes...maybe Pierce if we're lucky".

* * *

Onto Part II...


	9. OTG Part 2

"Off the Grid-Part II"

**"The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country;"_-_ **Thomas Paine, The American Crisis, December 1776.

**"I believe he meant that, the summer soldiers are only patriots when it's easy to be, but the winter soldier is a true soldier for the cause."** – Ed Brubaker.

* * *

Hydra Base

Tuesday

1700 hours

Time pending: 14 hours

The Winter Soldier lay on his bed, eyes to the ceiling as his mind roamed over the events from yesterday.

A knock on the door drew him out of his illusion, and he turned his gaze towards the door.

Another knock, this time more urgent, caused the soldier to get up from the mattress, his form automatically reverting to a defensive stance. _A product of conditioning._

"Dude...its Roj"

The soft voice...almost a whisper emanating from the other side, broke his stance. He moved quickly towards the door, opening it and letting the Blond man enter. Checking to make sure there were no visible threats, he closed the door, locking it.

Roj made his way towards the bed, dropping a large duffel bag onto the soldier's mattress.

"Christmas came early," the Blond man quipped, sarcasm hanging onto his tone.

The soldier simply made his way to the bag, opening it and shuffling through the contents inside. Ammunition, Kevlar, leather, _the works_.

"Got you a couple of the pistols on your list...fully loaded, with a few packs of ammo to spare. You're welcome," then, "I couldn't find the HK assault rifle. But I did find something better" Roj nodded, as he saw the Winter Soldier reach in and pull out the armament in reference.

"AK-74," Roj said almost proudly, "Kalashnikov..._Soviet born-and-bred_; one of your kind, right?"

The soldier ran his fingers over the weapon, examining the magazine, checking the barrel jacket. _Familiar terrain_. Checking the safety mechanism, he hauled the rifle upwards, the butt of the instrument meeting his right shoulder. He simulated a defensive stance as his feet shifted apart to secure his balance.

Satisfied, he resumed ease, placing the rifle on the bed. Following this, he reached in and found an extra magazine in the bag. This specific model was capable of holding one 30 cartridge magazine at any given time. With only one additional magazine on hand, he would have 60 rounds, counting down. He hoped he wouldn't have to exhaust the entire lot.

Roj reached into his own backpack and retrieved two radios.

"From 'Storage'," he conveyed, handing one over to the soldier, "Brand new, unconnected to any existing line. I'm on number 6" he said, throwing one of the devices towards the soldier, who caught it mid-air.

"Mic check," Roj said into the radio, half jokingly, "Testing"

The soldier flipped the switch on his device, changing to line 6 as per Roj's instruction.

"Roger" came the reply in kind.

"Got some good news with the beacon, by the way," Roj began, sitting on the edge of the mattress, "I managed to sway one of remaining guards on duty at **Security** for a short while. Radio'd him to get his ass outside and check up on the surrounding vicinity; Rumlow's orders. The fool didn't even place a substitute to cover him. _Told you they were getting slack._" Roj grinned.

"He was still logged in, so I played my trump card. Leeched my way into the system and de-activated my room cell. It'll now show up as 'Unoccupied' on any digital map of the building".

"Got you this too," he continued, handing over a pack of mini-disks and USBs, "'Web of Operations'; every person, every politician, scientist, every corporation affiliated with them. Hydra's _blueprint_".

"Sounds good," was the prompt answer, then, "There's a tracker in my arm...or so I suspect. Rumlow mentioned it in passing two nights ago. I need to have it examined"

Roj peered inquisitively at the soldier's arm—the artificial limb looking even more diabolical on closer inspection. He narrowed his eyes in thought, contemplating upon the soldier's words.

"I...I don't know anything about robotics," Roj began dejectedly.

He found himself being grabbed by the strap of his armoured vest, as his back met the hard concrete wall.

"I wasn't asking", cold eyes bore into pensive ones, "Find a way, Roj".

"You need me," Roj replied, almost tauntingly.

"Do I?" the soldier growled, pulling the smaller man forward then using the momentum to slam him forcefully against the wall.

"I've got the ammo," the soldier reached down to lightly tug at Roj's Security Card pinned at the waist, "And now I have your pass. I could get out, go invisible for a while. But they'll track me down. Just as how they'll kill you here, if I leave you. You think you can rely on Shield? Hydra may get to you, an hour before Shield does. What then?", he threatened, "You need me more than I need you, Roj. Find a way".

"Ok...Okay...hey...listen... I...I may know someone in this facility who may be of help", Roj began, his back still pressed against the wall, "This...techie, brilliant guy, mostly oversees Intel and Coding, but if it's a tracker...it's probably extractable...right? He's a night owl...leaves late. I ...we can go...meet him".

The soldier glared at the broken man before him. His eyes evinced neutrality...unconvincing and weak. Roj was scared. The Winter Soldier knew this. Wrapping his metal arm around the man's neck, he pressed slightly...the intricate pattern on the artificial limb burning into the skin on the Blond man's neck.

"Are you lying to me, Roj?"

"N...no...no, I'm not", Roj replied through, "His name...his name is Neo, well, not really, but we call him...Look he works on Level 3 okay. He'll be alone. I'll meet him right now. Confirm it for you. Please...you gotta believe me"

The soldier held his position for a few minutes, then released the injured man.

"10 minutes, Roj" he ordered, "I want confirmation in 10 minutes".

A few moments after Roj had settled himself, he reached up to rub his bruised neck. Shaking his head in annoyance he walked towards the elevator, making his way to Level 3.

8 minutes later, the soldier's radio crackled abruptly.

"He's working the night-shift, Level 3. Get him when its dark." the voice was marred by static, but it distinctively belonged to Roj.

* * *

Hydra Base

Tuesday

2300 hours

Time Pending: 8 hours

Rumlow paced in his room as he waited on a call from one of the support technicians stationed at a lower level of the building. Mild frustration became full-blown annoyance as the agent glanced at his phone for what felt like the hundredth time. He was hoping for an early leave for the night, but the issue at hand was of apparent importance.

Like water quenching thirst, the phone began to ring, cutting through the silence of the space. Quickly reaching for the device, Rumlow answered it, anticipating the worst as was in his nature.

"Status update," he mechanically relayed into the device.

"Sir, we found the source of the abnormality. It's been tied to an agent Roj...one of our own Sir", the voice on the phone relayed.

_Roj_, Rumlow thought, racking his brains.

_Roj_...he didn't recognize the name.

"Any more info?"

"Yes Sir," the technician replied, "Uhh...here...Agent Roj, initiated around two weeks prior, ex-military, clearance check came back clean...apparently. Lost his photo ID so we—"

"...Wait...hold on," Rumlow backtracked, agitated, "He lost his photo ID and you issued him with a replacement without running it through me first?!"

"Sir...I didn't..."

"We just had an incident of someone using Sanders' ID card to log into our systems. You remember Sanders don't you? K.I.A during Pasadena? There's a mole and you didn't think to run his ID through me first?!" the agent's voice berated the technician.

"Sir—".

"Alert Security," Rumlow said firmly, "Roj isn't one of ours. Do it now and do it _quietly_"

* * *

Shield, Hill Residence

0100 hours, 'D-Day'

Time Pending: 6 hours

Natasha strapped the pair of stingers around her wrists, attaching her signature dual-_Ruger LCPs_ on each side of her waist. She had already suited up an hour ago and was currently pacing in one of Hill's guest rooms. The bizarre circumstances of her surroundings made her smirk somewhat. She was preparing for war in the sombre comfort of a vintage styled room, complete with fully furnished 50s decor.

Walking towards the mahogany vanity table, she examined her reflection briefly. Her bruises from the hellicarrier incident had almost healed.

A small knock on the partially opened door, turned her gaze sideways. She smiled genuinely, seeing her comrade perched against the frame, fully suited up.

"Come in, Steve", Natasha smiled.

The man they called Captain America, made his way towards the bed behind the vanity, sitting down on the edge.

"You ready for this, Natasha?" the voice gently questioned.

The question made her heart skip a beat. Natasha turned around, looking her comrade straight in the eye. She breathed in dramatically, as her head tilted sideways in contemplation.

"No, Rogers," came the dry, dead-panned reply, evoking a soft laugh from her friend.

"There's a good chance you're going to see him...Barnes..._Bucky_...again," she continued, trying to take heat off of her, "Are you ready?"

"I'll soon find out," came the sombre reply, followed by a well-meaning smile. Steve Rogers was charming even during the calm before the storm.

"Whatever happens Rogers," Natasha began, "You're a good person. And I have your back," she continued, surprised at her apparent sense of ethic. Then again, Steve could bring that out in a person, regardless of their past.

She reached into her backpack and pulled out a balaclava, then tied up her striking red hair into a small bun.

"First time I've seen you do that," Steve quipped, nodding towards the balaclava.

"Someone from Hydra may recognize me, Steve," she replied, attaching the cloth mask to her waist, "I had a life before Shield".

Only Natasha knew the real reason however.

The latter nodded in kind, hesitant to probe further. A few moments of silence passed when he alerted his comrade to Fury's stipulated time of 'roll-call'.

Making his way to the lounge, Steve left, leaving Natasha alone.

* * *

Hydra Base

0430 hours, 'D-Day'

Time Pending: 2 hours, 30 mins.

Blue eyes wide open, the Winter Soldier lifted himself from his mattress, thwarting the leftovers of his brief slumber. He made his way to the desk holding the duffle, reaching inside to retrieve the Kevlar vest left there by Roj. Removing his hoodie, he strapped the vest to his sturdy form, then covered it with the dark leather jacket he had worn two nights before to The Box. Retrieving a pair of fingerless leather gloves from within the bag, he strapped them on, then made his way towards the bed.

He'd laid out all of his armaments on the other side of the mattress a few hours ago. Now, he leant down to convey a final inspection.

Slipping the assault rifle into the duffel bag, he strapped two fully-loaded handguns to either side of his waist, then tucked a few clips of ammo into his back pockets. Gripping his duffel, he retrieved the radio then made his way to the door, his hand steady on the lock. The soldier waited for Roj to radio through.

Moments passed, then minutes with nothing but static on Line 6. Roj had said 5 AM. The man had been specific, even ardent about it. The soldier glanced at the simple analogue clock on the wall facing his bed, lagging behind by about 5 mins. It showed 5:10.

_Shit._

Dropping his duffel, he unlocked the door to his room then stepping out into the empty hallway. Re-securing it, he made his way to the elevator, pressing for Level 5—the floor that housed Roj's room.

Once the elevator came to a stop, the soldier retreated to a corner, behind the opening doors. He waited, holding his breath for any liability that lay ahead. Satisfied after a moment's passing, he straightened his demeanour and stepped out onto the floor.

The area was dimly lit, an eerie silence hanging in the air.

Slowly, the soldier began to walk down the hallway, passing room after room, incognito to its residents. Then...he saw it.

Roj's quarters.

The lights were turned off, apparently. No one was home.

A lone guard was perched outside, rifle in hand, neutral stare covering a hard-looking mug.

_Shit_.

_What now_, the soldier wondered, as he made his way nonchalantly towards the room. The guard noticed the on-coming figure, his gaze eyeing the approaching soldier. His grip on the rifle tightened and his form stiffened.

"Morning," the Winter Soldier said, nodding at the guard who returned the greeting. Neither of them evinced a genuine offering.

"I need to speak to Roj. He has something of mine," the soldier said, eyeing the guard.

"No can do, Sir", was the firm reply, "I've got orders to deny entry to Roj's quarters. Sorry".

The soldier nodded, his otherwise neutral face almost betraying a hint of disappointment.

Before he left, the guard called out to him.

"Sir...", the man began, looking around hastily, "Between you and me...word is, Roj is under suspicion for being a mole...for Shield, Sir. Can you believe it?"

The soldier simply remained silent, as a tense sense of apprehension began to seep through his form. He maintained his stiff disposition.

"Yeah...they've taken him for interrogation, Rumlow and his men. Personally, its less of an interrogation than it is a reading of his last right, know what I mean?" the guard smirked coldly.

"Good riddance," was the stoic reply as the man with the metal arm turned on his heel, wading through the darkness once again.

* * *

He leapt up the stairs, two...three steps at a time, heart pounding deliriously, adrenalin forcefully being released into his bloodstream...fusing with his blueprint, fuelling his essence. Momentarily, he closed his eyes, as the familiarity of reckless abandon that had often embraced him during missions, returned to greet him.

The soldier carried on, breathing heavily though his nostrils, as his chest began to tighten. The sinews in his arms and legs started to constrict as his body got used to the physicality of the situation.

Roj was dead to rights. The soldier had almost felt a pang of pity, but only momentarily, as his form reverted back to stealth mode. The price of freedom was high, and at times, the price was death. It was common in his dealings, he understood. _The possibility of_ _Death._

The relative hush-hush of the situation led him to deduce that Roj's apparent betrayal was still kept on the down-low. The plan, the original one, hadn't worked. As such, he would have to improvise. The Winter Soldier would soon live up to his namesake.

He hadn't taken the elevator. The rush he got from the stairs was his warm-up. _Time to leave this place._

At his floor, the soldier quietly opened the door leading from the stairs—the alternative route in an emergency. He made his way to his room, slipping in silently.

Once inside, he retreated to the sink area, lifting the ceramic lid from the tank. Grabbing the package, he tore through the plastic and retrieved the security pass. It would no doubt be of use to him in his on-going plan to escape.

Adjusting the pistols by his side, he made his way to the mattress, lifting up the pillow he usually rested his head on. The newspaper clipping of Captain Rogers was covered slightly by the page he'd stolen from his file—the one with _her_ picture. Hastily folding both sheets and tucking them into the inside of his jacket, he made his way towards the door.

Grabbing the duffel bag, he turned one final time to survey the room that had doubled as a prison cell. _He wouldn't be missing this place._

He left the poster of the '_Woman in red'_ behind.

A slight smirk drew across his face, as he realised he would be taking his final bow. It was overshadowed however, by one other thing playing on his mind. The soldier had one more lap left to run.

Shutting the door, he made his way to the emergency escape and down the stair towards Level 3.

The technician, the man they called Neo, would not be expecting a visitor any time soon.

All the better.

* * *

Shield Surveillance

0530 hours, 'D-Day'

Time Pending: 1 hour, 30 minutes

In an unassuming van, approximately one and a half kilometres east from Hydra's base, an agent relayed his final update to Fury.

"We got eyes on point, Sir", the man spoke into the radio, "We roll out in one hour".

* * *

Hydra Base

Time Pending: 45 minutes

On Level 3 of the base, the lone flicker of a single monitor glowered in the otherwise dimly lit space. The technician, jokingly referred to as 'Neo', sat across his keyboard, hunched over as his eyes roamed over the text before him.

Pierce had tasked him with decoding some of the files on the folder retrieved by Rumlow and Barnes two nights ago—the one effecting evidence of genetic manipulation under _Project Genesis 2.0_.

He had been made to sign a disclosure agreement before being assigned to the task, yet Pierce's imposing gaze was more than enough to put the fear of God..._no_...the fear of Pierce himself, into the young technician.

He continued to tap at his keypad, eyes glazing over as his ears picked up the distinct creak of a door being opened.

"You were supposed to come in with the pizza, 20 minutes ago," Neo said dryly and without looking up from the screen before him.

He got no reply.

Instead, he felt fingers at the back of his neck, grabbing a fistful of hair, pulling his head back then slamming it harshly against the edge of the wooden desk. The techie stumbled against his chair, as the force of the blow began to evince heavy discomfort—nerves rushing to convey signals of pain to his brain. He saw stars for a while.

"Pizza will have to wait," he heard a low voice growl, as he was dragged across the floor and shoved against the chair opposite to his own. A loaded pistol was drawn, the open barrel meeting his sweaty forehead.

"I need you to disable the tracker in my arm. _Now_".

The Winter Soldier cocked his gun to make his point clear.

"What...Barnes?...It's me..." the tech stumbled his words, reaching up to feel the now bleeding gash above his eyebrow and cringing at the touch, "What...what the fuck did you hit me for, asshole?!" he continued.

"There's a tracker in my arm. I need you to disable it. Remove it", the soldier repeated, "I'm not fucking around," he continued, grabbing the technician by the throat, watching his own metal fingers wrap around his victim's throat.

"Ok...okay...hold" Neo coughed out, a mixture of phlegm and blood spilling onto his white shirt, "Wait...please...I'll try..."

The soldier held his over-whelming grip for a few moments more, intent on conveying the seriousness of the situation to his victim. He looked on, as the man's eyes began to bulge slightly, the blood leaving his face. Then...he loosened his grip, shoving the man backwards.

Neo struggled to regain his sense of self, raising himself up to the chair and slumping haphazardly into it. He heaved hoarsely for a few moments, before being met with the barrel of a pistol trained on his form.

"I'll...do what you want...just don't kill me...please".

* * *

Shield Surveillance

Time Pending: 24 minutes

On the opposite end of where their fellow comrades were stationed, the Black Widow stood on a small hill overlooking the South side of Hydra's base. Retrieving one of the hand-guns strapped to her waist, she attached a scope and pinned on a laser-pointer, testing its bright red flare against the ground. Satisfied, she pulled out the balaclava from under her belt and pulled it over her cold face.

"This is the Black Widow. On call in 20"

* * *

Hydra, Level 3

Time Pending: 13 minutes

Neo narrowed his eyes letting them dance over the pattern on the soldier's arm. The gash on his head had ceased to bleed, yet it still stung.

He lifted the soldier's arm, peering closer to examine its elaborate design. It truly towed the line between functioning as a weapon of destruction, and evincing an artistic temperament. After a few moments of inspection, his hand stopped at a spot on the metallic tricep, fingers patting down on a specific spot.

"Here...see this? There's a slight gap from the bond between the arm and the forearm. It's here...the tag...the _tracker_," Neo said.

"Then remove it" was the prompt reply.

"I'll...I'll need some equipment...It's...I can remotely disconnect it from my monitor..."

"Disconnect it first, then extract it" the soldier ordered.

"I'll need my computer..."

Loosening his grip on the technician, he let the man go to this desktop.

A few minutes passed as Neo continued to type hastily across the keypad. The pistol was still trained on his form.

"Okay...looks like its an RFID—a _Radio Frequency Identification chip_. I've isolated its signal...disconnected it temporarily. You have to—"

The sound of gunshots tore through the silence of the room, as the soldier ducked underneath one of the desks, pulling the technician to his level. The sounds were loud..._close_, he realised, as reached to his waist to retrieve a replacement clip of ammunition. Tucking it into his pistol, he cocked the weapon and tilted his head slightly above the desk, peering towards the door.

He waited.

The door opened, and the sound of footsteps filled the air. The soldier closed his eyes...concentrating upon their movements and the frequency of their steps; _two pairs_, he deduced, two hostiles.

Peering slightly, he sussed out the figures.

_Two men._

_He'd been right. _

_Both Hydra._

One finger to his lips, he ordered the technician to lay low. Then, he nonchalantly stood up, gun tucked behind his back. _Invisible._

The men stopped abruptly, their grip stifled on the rifles they carried.

Still, their faces bore a sense of relief upon seeing his face. _A familiar. _It was only temporary, however. Taking his chance, the Winter Soldier reached behind, swiftly drawing his pistol and firing two prompt shots—both close range projectiles, both point blank. Their lifeless bodies fell to the floor as the soldier grabbed his duffel and placed it on the desk, holding the technician's collar with his good hand. Opening the bag, he tucked his pistol at his waist then reached for the assault rifle. Clicking the safety off, he walked towards the door dragging the technician along.

The intensity of the gunshots increased, and the soldier could now hear muffled voices—strained and painful under the recurring chaos. _Shield_, he realised, as he reached the door. _It was Shield._ They had decided to ambush the place after all, despite Roj's current predicament.

He opened the door, clutching the rifle in his arm steadily whilst leading the technician down the hallway. The air was hazy—the result of a couple of smoke bombs going off—and the soldier narrowed his eyes, struggling somewhat to decipher his surroundings. He could hear the distinct sound of on-coming footsteps and he readied his rifle as such, barrel pointed towards the echo.

One figure...male...around the corner.

That, he could make out.

He raised the weapon, finger on the trigger when...

_No..._

_NO..._his mind screamed at him.

The uniform..._it was different_.

_Not Hydra._

The figure wasn't affiliated with Hydra, he realised a little too late.

The soldier faltered slightly, unsure whether to shoot; _an unprecedented move for him_. They—_Shield_—weren't his enemy, yet he wasn't significant to them _per se_.

His brief hesitation had cost him.

The figure raised a pistol, firing a few shots at his form. On instinct, the soldier ducked, then rolled across the floor towards one of the adjacent spaces, taking cover under the smoky haze. In the chaos, he had lost Neo.

The soldier cursed under his breath, as he readied his weapon. His tracker had been disconnected, yet he'd feel better upon the complete extraction of the RFID. Still, beggars couldn't be choosers and right now, he was in no real position to command the fortune of choice.

He waited in the shadows until the figure that had shot at him, walked past his space. When he found himself alone, he darted towards the stairs, security pass in hand.

* * *

Running down the stairs, he came upon a few more Hydra agents—all relieved to see his armoured form, all wrong in their assessment of his intent. They had been on the receiving end of his gunfire, as he'd emptied a few rounds into them...deep red blood tainting the white of the walls. He continued downward towards the underground garage.

An emergency beacon had been tipped off now, and the building had been shrouded in darkness—the only visible light available, emanated from the flashing orange bulbs erected on the side walls of the stairwell.

Descending the few flights of stairs, the soldier finally found himself facing a huge concrete wall—the only thing separating him from captivity and relative freedom. He held up the security pass and tapped the barcode against the scanner on the kiosk to his right.

"Welcome, Mr. Sanders," a mechanical voice relayed pleasantly over the speakers.

He waited for an entrance then made his way towards the key-rack. Most of the vehicles were coded, not according to their licence plates but by a numerical sequence, only privy to the actual owner.

Annoyed, his eyes lowered towards the 3 sets of keys in the bottom-left-hand section—those that keyed into motorcycles. He took all three sets then made his way to the holding bay.

The soldier was successful on his second try, as he flung the rifle over his right shoulder and waited for the metal door to reel up and over the Bay. Revving the bike in anticipation, he rode it across the dividing line separating the inside of the garage and the outside vicinity.

Cold air greeted him, and he reached for his pistol, cocking the trigger and firing without remorse at any hostiles in the immediate area.

The base was still shrouded in darkness, he noticed as he turned his head to assess the damage. A fire had broken out on one of the upper levels, and the sound of gunshots continued to prevail, challenged only by screams of agony and pleas for back-up. He turned back, eyes following the road and the path that lay ahead.

In the distance, a lone humvee veered towards him. _Hydra_, he knew, pulling the trigger of his pistol and firing a few rounds at its tires. He revved the bike and chucked the pistol aside, twisting the handle bar to take him off-road and up a small hill, away from the approaching humvee.

From his far left, he could hear the continuous shots of an assault rifle in his direction. Sweat dripping down the side of his head, he manoeuvred his bike under the heat of fire, just barely managing to evade the on-coming bullets.

The humvee had resumed its intended course, making its way further into the Base.

Slowing down, he abruptly twisted the handle and re-angled the bike towards the road he had just left, halting the vehicle, leaving the engine running. He reached behind his back and retrieved his assault rifle, popping a new magazine in the groove and locking it in place. Re-attaching it to his shoulder, he reached for the helmet strapped to the left-rear end of the bike, pulling it over his head and flipping the visor down.

The soldier looked on towards the road, waiting momentarily in anticipation for any visible threat. Most of the action was centre-field—at the Base itself. He thought he heard the distinct sound of sirens blaring in the distance.

Reaching a gloved fist towards the hand clutch, he held the brake down briefly as he revved up the machine. Smoke and the smell of burning rubber affected the cool, morning air.

Then...he left the brake, as the motorcycle lunged forward, the momentum of pent-up torque pushing him forward...faster...down the dirt path and onto the main road again, as he twisted the hand clutch...wide eyes trained on the digital speedometer, pupils dilating as the number of the dial rose...taking him faster...faster and farther away into the light of the early dawn.

He did not look back this time.

* * *

Hydra

0745 hours

'D-Day'

Neo—the technician hired by Pierce to decode _Project Genesis 2.0_—found himself headlining the worst day of his life thus far.

The young man had come to consciousness—the gash on his forehead enacted prior, still evincing a harsh sting. His hands, he discovered, had been bound behind the chair that held him and he'd tilted his neck upwards, coming face-to-face with...

He hadn't recognized the figure that stood before him—a black balaclava was used as a mask. He'd been too disoriented to decipher anything else.

Behind the figure, stood the man he'd identified as Captain America—the all-encompassing smile frequently displayed on posters and memorabilia, being replaced by a mean looking glare.

They had questioned him..._hurt_ him. They had forced him to relay any knowledge on the whereabouts of Barnes. He was not a soldier moulded for combat; merely a technician who stayed to the side-lines. As such, he had broken down eventually; told them about Barnes...about the tracker that was still implanted in the soldier's metal limb. About how he could help them track down the man known as the Winter Soldier.

"It's not extracted yet," he'd told them, "I severed the signal, only temporarily though. As long as it's still in his arm...I...I can track him. I can find him...for you. Just...please...don't kill me" the technician pleaded.

"You're coming with us".

* * *

'D-Day'

0930 hours

DreamStart Homes Construction site

The darkness of the early dawn had passed and the sun was a quarter way to its highest point in the sky. Chirping birds and the distant sound of an ice-cream truck tune broke the otherwise sombre silence of the surroundings. A few rays of light broke through the dusty windows in the partially finished home. Planks of wood, nails—new and used and various tools were strewn carelessly around the lounge area of the house—leftover from the previous day no doubt.

Coming up to the dusty, half-completed kitchen counter, the Winter Soldier propped the black duffel bag on its surface, unzipping it. He looked inside checking to make sure every item was in place. Satisfied, he reached into his back pocket to retrieve a snack bar—the last of what he had stolen from the mess hall a few hours ago.

After his breach from Hydra, he had kept riding, trying to suss out potential cool spots to lay low in. He'd found the current place, a little over 20 miles from Hydra's Base—not very far, but inconspicuous nonetheless. Not even the technician knew that he'd been successful in his escape.

Two things had gone against plan; one, he'd failed to gun down Pierce; two, he'd failed to make contact with Steve Rogers. Still, both were capable of being tasked to succession in the future.

Eyeing the assault rifle he'd placed onto the counter, he reached for its handle, gripping it and examining the extent of its use. Popping out the magazine, he counted the remaining cartridges—not enough ammunition. His pistols were almost out; his steel blade was the only inexhaustible weapon in his possession.

Placing the rifle on its back, the soldier pulled up the trigger guard, popping open the mechanism. A few moments went by, as he concentrated on disassembling the rifle, brows furrowed with intensity as a layer of sweat formed across his forehead.

The silence was damning and a soft sound made him freeze—one he wasn't sure was real or a result of his damning exhaustion.

The soldier quietly let down the rifle, pausing to listen through the eerie silence.

Nothing.

His eyes wandered over the place, ears on call—trained to spot the slightest break in sound. His heart pounded against his chest, increasing...faltering slightly when he held his breath too long.

There!

Another light tap...then another...soft, undetectable to a normal person but there, nonetheless.

He steadied himself, as his hand reached for the pistol strapped to his back.

_There!_ Another tap...slightly heavier this time...unbalanced almost.

His eyes raised upwards, a pang of realization dawning on him as he sourced the sound to the rooftop. _Someone was on the roof!_

Cursing under his breath, he made for his bag when—

Something broke the glass widows to his far left.

Smoke bombs, he realized; the non-lethal kind.

They—whoever was on the roof—intended to smoke-out the place, draw him out like a rat.

Grabbing his duffel, he darted through the house, almost stepping on an exposed nail. He left the disassembled rifle on the counter, making his way to what he deduced was the bathroom area—sink, partially in place, pipping—unfinished.

Shattering the window with his elbow, he drew out his gun and hauled himself over the pane, making his way down the dusty path towards his motorcycle.

Still running, he winced in agony as he felt a sharp pain dart through his right leg. He looked down, eyes widening at what he saw. He hadn't pulled a muscle; instead, a small device emanating a blue-ish hue, stuck to his limb...tightening his hamstring, sending a painful sting through his whole body.

_Current!_

_It was a surge of electric current._

Reaching down, he pulled out the device through gritted teeth, chucking it to the side. He carried on, half-running, half-limping, palms closed tight around his pistol, eyes darting *everywhere*...sussing out any potential threat.

He failed to look behind fast enough, as a kick threw him slightly off-guard, duffel bag dropping to the side. Gripping his pistol, he fired a few shots towards his attacker, as thick white smoke poured out of the windows.

He saw a haze of black...briefly, as he felt a pair of arms grip his shoulders...legs swinging swiftly around his waist.

_Wait..._

_No_...

He _knew_ this move. He'd been subjected to it previously. The sleek way his attacker once commanded the use of form and stealth to catch him off guard...to choke him.

He knew what was coming...anticipated the next move.

Before his attacker hauled their form over his shoulders, he forcefully slammed backwards into the adjacent wall. _Then again._

His attacker—slightly frazzled by this unexpected retaliation, pressed on.

But he knew the game was up.

His attacker was definitely injured, the force of his slam—hard and thorough.

His metal arm reached upwards, gripping a pair of shoulders, hauling the hostile figure to the ground in front of him. The figure was covered in black, he noticed. He couldn't make out a face, as he dragged the struggling body away from the smoke.

Once again, he was caught off-guard, as a series of kicks and punches were administered by his attacker. He ducked, blocked, punched back, finally gaining the upper hand as he tripped the figure to the hard ground, then pinned them down, metal arm pressing firmly against a pair of shoulders...

Somewhat smaller than he was used to, he noticed in the ensuing chaos. In fact, the form of his attacker had been small...tough, yet _slender_.

_A woman_, the solider concluded, as his metal arm continued to etch into her skin. _This was definitely a woman._

She was trying unsuccessfully to reach one of the bracelets on her wrist and he realised then, that she'd been the one who had employed the device...the _stinger,_ on him.

Strenuously, he held her down. Her frame was small yet she wielded a great deal of command over her form, employing the best of her traits to numb his scope for victory. She kneed him swiftly in his gut, but his weight on her body greatly decreased the momentum of the blow.

He was stronger. _Faster._

The soldier countered her attack by pinning down her right arm, holding the delicate wrist at an awkward angle... then _twisting_ it swiftly, fracturing the bone.

She screamed in pain, voice hoarse with strain as her small body contorted violently under his large frame. He held her down.

Only here and now, could he make out the green of her eyes outlined by the thick cloth of the black balaclava.

Her deep green eyes, familiar in every way yet strange all the same, bore hard into his own; evincing resentment..._seething rage_, together with pain—physical, as well as..._something else_. Her ego had been bruised, he realised; she did not like the feeling of dominance. Not like this, anyway. Her eyes forcefully commanded his equally firm gaze.

She started to contort and kick, suddenly becoming aware of their closeness. He growled in frustration, as he finally reached up to her face and, with one swift motion, pulled the balaclava off of her face.

The red was the first thing he saw. The red of her hair—made abundant somehow by the gleam of the sunlight. She stopped slightly, breaths heavy and fast as her eyes darted around his own face...wide...with fear..._expectation_. Her nostrils flared as he was momentarily gripped by the face before him, so close to him. His eyes roamed over her form as his mind struggled to comprehend the woman he held.

_He knew her_. Her face...from the folder Hydra had given him...he had studied her features. Her face was burnt onto his brain. It was unmistakable, then. She had been his comrade once upon a time.

_Her..._

The Black Widow.

"_You..._" his voice was low.

For a brief moment, his grip lightened on her form as his mind went haywire with the reality of her presence.

As such, the Widow took her cue, kneeing him again—this time with enough momentum to procure a harder blow. He winced in pain, momentarily being side-tracked by her surprise attack. She was about to relay a second blow, when his metal arm reached up to her neck.

His demeanour had changed, as the essence of the Winter Soldier took over—eyes, cold and ruthless bearing down on her. The metal of his fingers clenched around her throat, growing tighter as her mouth opened slightly to grasp for every bit of air possible.

Her eyes bulged around the sockets—wide, confused, fearful, angry—as her arms flailed about, punching his back, his ribs, all in a futile attempt to make him ease the grip he had on her. It failed to work, as he continued to exert the force of his metal arm—its mechanical gears shifting to increase the torque of his hold.

For a while, he lost control over his sense of self. It was almost as if, the duality shared between his mind and his body had been severed. Where his mind struggled to make sense of this woman, his body slipped into survival mode in an attempt to eradicate the threat—her.

It confused him.

All he possessed was the feeling that he was supposed to harbour some deep-seated resentment for this woman.

All he felt was hate; and yet he knew not why.

_What had she done to him?_

The soldier looked on now, as her once kicking form was starting to shrivel under him. Anymore of him holding her down and the force of his grip would crush her larynx, he knew. He saw her try for one last-ditch play at her stingers, but to no avail. She was almost on the brink of unconsciousness, one that would lead to brain damage, even death. He could not stop...

...until he heard footsteps hastily making their way towards him...

...until he heard voices, shouting in his direction...telling him to STAND DOWN NOW...

...until he felt a gun cock behind his ear...

...and a sharp blow to the base of his neck from the stock of a rifle—a swift motion, simple yet effective enough to induce a concussion.

The soldier lost sight of the red-haired woman...the Black Widow, as he began to slip away.

* * *

In his fever dream following the blackout, he saw this;

Her.

She was younger; her shoulder length red hair was cut short and straight and she fumbled to move a few strands from her face.

She was younger in his illusion—possibly just out of her teenage years. _Only just_. She had a hint of innocence that still seemed untarnished.

She was sobbing...her head was against his shoulder, resting under his chin.

_I dream about running away so that I don't have to confront them._

_I'm so scared. I'm scared of failure...James..._

_...vying for success but having to settle for something unfulfilling instead._

**Natalia...**

A slight whisper left his lips—his body and mind, still under the embrace of unconsciousness


	10. Finale

**Hey guys—just a short A/N:** Thanks for following my story so far; unfortunately, I won't be able to continue due to a variety of reasons that have decided to occur simultaneously in my life.

Basically, I had planned to finish it after 5-6 more chapters (depending on length), but I simply can't commit to it at the moment. I still have a short blue print however, regarding how the story would have eventually panned out, including some of the developmental arcs related to the characters. I'd also planned and organized the ending of the story.

If any one is still interested in knowing what might've been, I thought I'd at least give a brief relay of the ending to those who've been following it so far. I don't like to leave things hanging.

**Thanks a lot for taking the time to read and review.**

**Cheers!**

* * *

The story picks up where it left off. The Winter Soldier finds himself under Shield's authority now, confined to a cage similar to the one they used to hold Loki in The Avengers. Steve asks for his immediate release but his request is denied by Fury due to the soldier's presumed instability—they need to be sure of his motives...whether he is really on their side.

The story continues with the soldier in confinement; a prisoner to a new prison. Steve initially attempts to reconcile with James. He is, of course, rebuked. _At first_. Over the course of events, the soldier experiences brief memories of his past; of his time in the forties, to his culmination as The Winter Soldier. He also inevitably suffers from flashbacks involving his training in the Red Room but especially from his time with the Black Widow. Gradually, he starts to piece together his memoirs.

The events culminate with a face-off of sorts between the Winter Soldier, and the Black Widow. Incognito, she slips into the area confining the soldier and comes face to face with him for the first time in years—their forms only separated by a veil of thick glass. He remembers some of their most intimate memories now...taunts her about it, asks her to release him...reminds her of how good it once was. She of course, holds her own. The soldier still hasn't figured out her main betrayal of him, however. He will soon. She leaves him be.

Later, Steve visits his imprisoned friend, maintains small talk. Steve has hope; James is still cold...but he's beginning to thaw out. Starting to give the possibility of another life...a new life, some contemplation. Steve unlocks the glass cage. James is no longer confined and is given an opportunity to run with Shield or deflect into absolute normalcy...even oblivion if he wishes. Steve convinces his reluctant friend to strike whilst the iron is hot. With their newly acquired intel on Hydra's 'blueprint' that James had acquired during his escape, their shot at taking down Pierce is more prevalent than ever. James accepts, if only for a chance to find his place in the new world.

The story continues and covers James' rehab into the new world—this time, under Shield's watch. His new missions involve his old love, Natasha and his foray into his past involving her, is systematically unveiled. It leads to an unabashed confrontation on one of their missions into Hydra, where he finds himself alone with her. The memory of her betrayal is now frightfully clear to him. When she made the choice to deflect...to oppose her KGB handlers for the super-soldier serum, he was against it and disregarded her actions.

_Hey...being repeatedly brain-washed under the Soviets can do that to a guy. _

Still, his attempts to stop her resulted in his ultimate fall. In his heart of hearts, he would never have hurt her, even at the cost of having to let her go. She got her opportunity, pre-emptively hurting him instead...putting a few bullets in him...leaving him for as good as dead. She always knew when to cut the bait.

Present time—they—James and Natasha only *just* manage to evade Hydra's fire, barely escaping together yet achieving their sub-mission. It's here that James finally confronts Natasha on her actions—one that starts with a myriad of tumultuous emotion...seething anger, hurt, rage, sorrow—and ends with only one...passion. Yet, they remain strained in the days ahead. James just doesn't trust her...not like he once did; conveys this to Steve as such. Steve and James Barnes bond somewhat over Coney Island; over the Howling Commandoes and the War from way back when. The Winter Soldier begins to thaw out somewhat...

James looks into Pierce's whereabouts, aiming to take out the man once and for all. He feels lonely and questions his place in his world. _Contemplates upon his purpose_. It's all mildly existential; he tries to impose an essence on the blank canvas of his character, yet he struggles with the empty well he can't seem to fill. _Who...**what**, am I,_ he asks himself.

He thinks about Natasha..._his Natasha _and wonders why she did what she did. Her reasons fail to console his tortured soul, his wounded disposition. He wonders what lies for him after his plans to put a bullet into Pierce. Wonders if this pursuit should indeed be his last—a suicide mission if you will.

A turning point occurs when Pierce contacts the Black Widow, attempting to manipulate her interests by using the super-soldier serum as leverage. Pierce is privy to Natasha's past, to her betrayal. He offers her the choice to become something more, a second chance of sorts as well as full immunity from danger. All she has to do is give up her position...and the Winter Soldier, back unto Hydra. All she has to do is give her former lover, a Judas Kiss; betray him again like she once did.

James gets light of this. Confronts Natasha in front of Steve. She swears her loyalty, alleges her innocence but to no avail. Yet, James is absolutely sure of his mistrust of her, thwarts the possibility of regaining a working relationship at the very least, with her. She hasn't changed, he thinks. Now, it is the Black Widow who is confined—in the same glass cage used to house the Winter Soldier once upon a time.

Steve Rogers and James Barnes suit up for their final roll call—to take out Pierce. Before leaving, James meets her eye, yet his gaze is unreadable. She thinks she sees a hint of pity...perhaps compassion. Natasha isn't sure. She does know one thing though. She wouldn't have taken the serum. She wouldn't have betrayed Shield or Steve..._or him_. She was someone else now.

In the final chapter, Pierce succumbs to the wrath of the Winter Soldier; yet, in a twisted mirror image to the events of The First Avenger, it is Steve who falls to his death this time. James is shattered yet makes it back to relative safety. He is livid at the Black Widow and confronts her in kind...interrogates her in scathing contrast to her interrogation of him when he was once caged.

They talk, fight, engage...her seasoned spy against his seasoned soldier. The black widow breaks momentarily and for the first time, she is completely and utterly bare...stripped of all of her indiscretions, her secrets. It is the same feeling she felt when she first stood before him—student before teacher—all those years before in The Red Room. She is Natalia now and not The Black Widow. Under a last ditch effort to convey her innocence, the truth leaves her lips for the first time in a long while. She reveals her humanity to the only man who ever slipped through the cracks of her reinforced facade.

**A brief flashback...a past memory engulfs the soldier just as he remembers...**

Soviet Russia, 1989

She's there. She's younger. She had confided in him-her instructor-on one of numerous occasions, pouring out her sense of disillusionment between could recall certain aspects...her shoulder length hair, cut short and sleek as she'd fumbled to move a few strands from her face.

_There's this thing in my heart...picking at me; it tells me that the only thing awaiting me is failure. That, no matter how much I try...no matter how hard I work...at the end of the day, it's all futile. Nothing will change and that's alright. See, it's supposed to be alright. Because everyone has a part to play. Like that saying, some are born great, others have greatness thrust onto them. Yet, there are those who are not meant to be great at their craft. They are simply meant to be mundane...ordinary, because their destiny isn't to be at the top; no, they only serve to lift others—those truly meant for greatness—higher and higher._

**_Those truly meant for greatness_**_—like you. _

_But those like me...they will forever lurk in the shadows, vying for success but having to settle for something wholly unfulfilling instead._

_I dream about running away so that I don't have to confront these problems._

_I'm so scared. I'm scared of failure..._

_James...I'm scared of failing..._

**He remembers now...**

Natasha tells James she is sorry for her mistake. It is genuine—guilt inducing after all those years burdened by the one sin that tore at her otherwise neutral demeanour. Natasha is only human despite her attempts to convince herself otherwise.

Her sincerity is questioned yet she notices something different—a hint of softness amidst the jarring pain, his beautiful blue eyes convey.

In the days after their reconciliation, the Winter Soldier..._James_, finds himself drawn towards her...Natasha. The only woman who ever left her mark on him; physically and intimately. They talk...incredibly strained at first, like a long lost dog being re-united with his owner after eons...hesitant, reluctant, suspicious even, yet curious under the well-held facade.

Then...they contemplate; over an entwined past, over kills and losses and scatterings of colour amidst the dark grey blots of the lives they've both led thus far.

Soon...they laugh, occasionally. Bitter at times, frivolous otherwise yet soothing all the same.

Then...they touch. Familiar in many ways, different in some yet all-consuming nonetheless. They melt unto each other.

_He may have loved her once._

The epilogue is like any other; a man, every bit the Winter Soldier, as he is James Buchanan Barnes, lays his gaze out onto the vast horizon of the brightly lit city below. It is nightfall and he stands alone at first, contemplating upon his life thus far, wondering if it should've been him—once again—that took the fall. It should have been him, he fights with himself, yet another voice—one of solace—tells him otherwise. Steve would've wanted him to live on...to move on, he convinces himself. _Or tries to._

A figure approaches close behind, deep red hair, all curves. _Everywhere_. The Widow...his Natasha—the woman he comes across years later, still retains her striking good looks; yet she's changed from an innocent novice to evincing a sleek and seasoned command of self. She says nothing, just brushes the tips of her fingers lightly against his...teases him a bit with her delicate touch. He encloses her small hand with his fist...pulls tight.

She says nothing. She doesn't have to. She's here now, and with him. _Just two against the world, baby._

Word is out of a new, looming threat ahead; that involving a man known as Baron Von Strucker—one, curiously familiar to both, the Winter Soldier_ and_ the Black Widow.

The fight never ends.

Nothing ever ends willingly; not really.

Not with the world. Not with _her._


End file.
